Forever
by grannysknitting
Summary: The Pool. The Bomb. A tranquiliser dart. Now John is in the hands of his best friends greatest rival, and the man has a definite Agenda. Rated for dark themes and possible slash later in the piece Shwatson
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer – characters and settings as depicted in the BBC series not mine. No money being made. Plot is mine.

**Prologue**

He had not expected that the Pet would be worthy of Sherlock. On paper, the man was a washed up veteran – a wounded has been that hung around like a leech, draining Sherlock's vitality.

When the boys had grabbed the Pet on his way to the idiot woman's house, they'd had to drug him, so Jim had been rather bored while waiting for him to wake. Sherlock's message had been expected of course and therefore wasn't nearly distracting enough. He'd been tempted to make some modifications to the Pet – apart from the earpiece and bomb vest of course – but didn't want to distract Sherlock from their meeting. If the Pet was dripping blood everywhere he'd be the focus of Sherlock's attention: Moriarty preferred that to be him.

Once awake, things had gotten more interesting. The Pet had woken fighting, but stifled the urge quickly when he'd identified the bomb vest he was wearing.

"Now now, dear," Moriarty cooed, "Don't make me find another hostage because I've had to kill you. Although, now that I think of it… it would leave a room open in Baker Street – I could plant someone more _suitable_ for dear Sherlock to associate with in your place."

The Pet glared, but said nothing, his tense posture and breathing the only clue to his stress. The other hostages had cried and begged and one had even soiled himself, but Sherlock's Pet had done none of that. He'd glared at the floor, jaw clenched and muscles stiff. As tempting as it was to see just what would break that stiff control, Moriarty decided that the upcoming meeting was too close to truly begin and he did so hate having to stop when he was in the middle of something.

Meeting Sherlock in person was absolutely delicious. He was as beautiful as Moriarty had expected – both in body and mind. The chance to banter with him in person, to see those thoughts and wonderful deductions cross those lovely gray eyes. He could tell that Sherlock was enjoying it too – though he doubted the Pet had any idea of the courtship that was going on under his very nose.

The Pet's attempt to sacrifice himself for Sherlock was predictable and Moriarty felt a gleam of triumph at Sherlock's utter lack of reaction to the offer. He'd always known that the Pet was deluded in his belief that Sherlock had any feelings for him – Sherlock was too brilliant to be bothered with such mundane things. That changed when he left the two by the pool – he'd been so pleased with his parting shot that he couldn't resist watching the Pet and Sherlock for a few moments.

Although he'd called the Pet Sherlock's 'heart' he'd been certain that they both knew it was a joke, though Moriarty was fairly certain that the Pet had believed that he was important to Sherlock. Bless – such a deluded creature, really. However once he'd left, Sherlock showed actual emotion! He even thanked his Pet! It was unheard of – and Moriarty knew it wasn't an act. Sherlock was not acting, the Pet had actually managed to make Moriarty's perfect partner feel something!

Of course, that was not to be borne. If Sherlock was going to have actual feelings, they should be about Moriarty! Therefore he stepped out once more, determined to take Sherlock with him. At the very least, he wanted to remove the Pet from his path. Sherlock wasn't ready now, but one day he would be ready to join Moriarty against the mundane clones of the world.

He hadn't expected the threat to kill them all, nor the tiny glance and nod that the two flatmates opposite him exchanged. In that brief second he was consumed with a burning need – to know exactly what it was about Pet John Watson that inspired such a reaction in the exquisite Sherlock Holmes. It wasn't hard to send new instructions via text, his hand was in his pocket already and he'd trained his own Pet's well. A pair of darts from one of his 'snipers' had both of them out and on the floor before either could react – and more importantly before Sherlock could hurt himself.

He couldn't resist pressing a kiss to Sherlock's lax lips and slipping him a little gift before ordering his own Pet's to scoop up Sherlock's and heading for the exits. He'd never understood Sherlock's need to solve puzzles before, but now… this was one puzzle that he had no intention of passing up.

What was it about Sherlock's Pet that made him worthy of Sherlock's attention?

**%&%&%&**

AN – this fic is based [loosely] on the song by Snow Patrol 'Make This Go On Forever', which I don't own and have no rights to. It will alternate between Moriarty and John's POV and there will be some dark themes ahead (drug use, mind games etc). It's a loose take on how the stand off at the pool could have ended and what came next (aren't we all sick of those fics? Don't we all wish that they'd hurry up and show the new season already?)

And Moriarty is surprisingly difficult to write! Who knew?


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer – characters and settings as depicted in the BBC series not mine. No money being made. Plot is mine.

**John**

It was a sad comment on his life that John's first thought when waking up from the dart he'd taken to the shoulder was 'not again'. His second thought was 'ouch' – they'd left him on the floor on his bad shoulder, which didn't react well if he slept on it without moving. This was almost a hundred times worse because he had to fight off whatever the drug that he'd been given as well as the pain from his shoulder.

For a moment he thought he was back in Afghanistan, but that was the confusion and pain talking – some deliberate breathing calmed his mind enough for him to focus on where he was and what was happening. Concern for Sherlock threatened to undo his calm again, but he put his friend to the back of his mind – a difficult task to be sure – and focussed on the present.

The room he was in was clean enough, if a little dusty. There were some windows set high in the walls, formed with thick safety glass. They were grimy and hardly let in any daylight, but from what John could tell, he was in a subbasement, looking over a garden of some sort. He couldn't hear any traffic, or any noise on the ceiling above him. Stretching carefully, John walked towards the door, taking note of the size of the room, the height of the ceiling and the thickness of the windowsills. By the time he reached the door (thick, old wood with peeling green paint) John had worked out that he was in an old building, Georgian era, which had been remodelled at some point. He was in the sub-basement – what had probably been part of the servant's territory at some point – and that the house itself was in an area that wasn't too built up – so possibly in the country or the outskirts of Greater London.

The room was devoid of furniture, no plumbing, no light fittings or switches. He could see that there had been light fittings and switches at one point, but they had been sealed over crudely – someone had bolted panels of wood over where the light switch normally would be, as well as over several places in the ceiling that John assumed were light fittings.

Although he was certain the door would be locked, John checked it carefully before returning back to the patch of sunlight he'd woken in. The stretches were working – the pain in his shoulder was receding slightly, though it would be hours before it faded entirely. John settled himself onto the floor and allowed the winter sunlight to warm him while he thought his situation through. Obviously Moriarty had used tranquilisers on them both, and then transported John here. He wasn't certain if Sherlock was elsewhere in the building or even if his friend had been brought here. He wouldn't put it past Moriarty to have taken John and abandoned him to starve out here as some sort of game or challenge for Sherlock: or even to have taken them both and hold John hostage for Sherlock's continued good behaviour.

There was only one thing to be done: once his shoulder was recovered and his head and stomach had settled in the wake of the drugs he would try getting out of here. At the very least he'd make some noise and see what reaction he could get. If there was none, then there was a good chance he was alone and therefore in a better position to escape.

That was all in the future, though. He would have no chance of coping with the unexpected while his shoulder felt like someone was driving a railway spike through it. Recovery first: then escape. He could put the waiting time to planning and thinking, even if he wasn't as good at it as his captor and flatmate.

**%&%&%&**


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer – characters and settings as depicted in the BBC series not mine. No money being made. Plot is mine.

**Moriarty**

There were several important matters waiting for his attention once they'd left the pool, so James had left the Pet in the care of a few of his more intelligent grunts. Not that he trusted them entirely; he had installed a camera ahead of time and set another of his grunts to watch the feed. Therefore he was not best pleased when said grunt called him to say the Pet was awake but appeared to have been injured.

"What, precisely, do you mean?" Jim's voice could have been used to freeze nitrogen. He enjoyed the way the grunt's voice wavered and cracked as he explained that the Pet had been left lying on his side, which had apparently aggravated an existing injury. The Pet had woken twenty minutes ago and was now sitting in a patch of sunlight, massaging said shoulder.

Jim fired off a quick text to his most lethal employee Moran and then headed for his own laptop, opening the feed and examining the Pet for himself. Sure enough, his grunt hadn't exaggerated. The Pet was still massaging and stretching his shoulder, rotating the joint carefully. Jim remembered that he'd read somewhere that the Pet had been shot in Afghanistan while protecting one of his patients and had been rewarded with a medal and a medical discharge.

"Has he gotten up?" Moriarty didn't take his eyes off the screen as he asked the question, "Was he limping?"

"A – a little," the grunt quivered. Moriarty grunted and fired off another text, this time to his driver and one of his more intelligent gun hands. He'd have to check the Pet over carefully. As he watched, the Pet squinted in his direction, the surprise on his face clearly indicating that he'd only just spotted the camera. Moriarty snickered at the resigned expression on the Pet's face, but a small part of him was impressed that no other reaction was offered, no rude gestures, pointed turning of the back or attempt to destroy the camera.

"Watch him, and call me the moment something changes," James ordered, "I assume you've been recording the feed?"

"Y-yes sir, ever since they opened the front door to the house," the grunt replied, pathetically relieved that he could give his boss a positive answer. Moriarty sniffed and headed for the door, knowing that the car would be ready to take him out to the house where he'd stashed the Pet. He settled into the leather seats and started texting, making sure that his orders from earlier were on track. He had a rather unique guardian in mind for the Pet, if only she could be fetched in time.

Halfway through the eighty mile drive, he got a text from Moran. Those that had hurt the Pet had been dealt with. As Moran had only one way of 'dealing with' a situation, Moriarty hoped that the bodies were well disposed of. He did so hate having loose ends around.

The drive was fairly tedious, so Jim amused himself by arranging a small fraud scheme and fixing a few races in the lead up to next years Grand National. With his mind properly occupied it was something of a shock when the road gave way to the rough and unkempt driveway. The rambling house was in poor repair, though in no danger of falling down just yet. Jim stepped out of the car and straightened his suit. It wasn't that he wanted to impress the Pet; it was more that he had a reputation to maintain.

He nodded to his gun hand and allowed the man to precede him to the door. It was time to begin working out what it was about mundane John Watson that had so captivated Sherlock Holmes.

**&%&%&**

John was pleased he spotted the camera before he attempted to let himself out of his prison – if there was anything he did guaranteed to get attention, attempting a breakout was sure to be it. He couldn't quite stop the resigned expression on his face, but resisted the urge to offer anything more… inflammatory. He'd simply sat and massaged and stretched his shoulder carefully, working out the kinks in the injured joint with care and attention.

Once he was as pain free as he was going to get, John got up and looked around the room one more time, then stretched his muscles carefully, limbering up to banish the last of the drugs effects. As he finished with the exercises, he heard the crunch of tyres on gravel. It was humiliating to have to stand on tiptoe and peer through the windows and even then he couldn't see anything.

He moved to stand in the middle of the room, facing the door. He had no chance of overpowering anyone coming through the door, not with the camera on him, so it made sense to minimise the risk of getting attacked for trying to be a hero and bust out of his prison.

Moriarty stepped through the door, shadowed by a large man with a large gun. He wasn't really experienced with weaponry, because he kept his boss between him and John instead of moving to the side to create a clear line of sight. John could use that against his opponents, provided there was a good enough opportunity to do so.

"Show me," Moriarty's first words were not what John had expected. He frowned trying to work out what the psychopath meant. Moriarty made an impatient noise and gestured to John's shoulder.

"Show me your shoulder, Pet. I know it is hurting you."

The shock of the request held John immobile for the moment. The scars on his shoulder were not something he displayed to the public – not that he was ashamed of them or anything. Sherlock had seen them, mainly because he had a habit of barging into any room that John occupied in order to get his flatmates attention; that included the bathroom. Sherlock had walked in on John in the shower or a towel more than once.

Gritting his teeth, John reached up and undid buttons, staring at Moriarty as he did so. He shrugged the shirt off easily enough on the right side, but eased it over the left shoulder carefully. The pain was finally settling down and he had no wish to aggravate it. Once clear of his wrist, he tucked the shirt into the back of his trousers, keeping it off the ground. The room was cold enough to make his skin goose bump, but he ignored that as well, concentrating on keeping his face neutral

"Hmm," Moriarty mumbled and stepped forward. John stared through the psychopath, ignoring the mans scrutiny. There had been a doctor in the rehab clinic that had treated his patients more as damaged objects than people and John had found it best to reciprocate the lack of attention – practice that stood him in good stead now.

"That looks painful," Moriarty cooed, walking around John to see the back of his shoulder as well. John sucked in a startled breath when thin fingers traced over the scar tissue. Even Sherlock had never touched the scar on his shoulder – he'd peered at it from close range, but never touched it. In fact, he'd made an effort to avoid that shoulder when leaning or slumping on John.

"Easy, Pet," Moriarty stroked the scars lightly, not putting pressure on them at all. John didn't trust it though, bracing himself for the sudden pain that Moriarty would doubtless inflict the moment he was bored.

"You were shot from behind, Moriarty murmured, "But you weren't upright when he shot you."

"She," the correction slipped from John's lips automatically, "The sniper was a woman."

"Whatever," Moriarty dismissed that detail glibly, "Why weren't you standing?"

"She had our patrol pinned in among some ruined buildings. We had men down and as I was traversing between cover, I took a round to the thigh. I tied it off and went after a sapper who'd been shot in the side of the neck. I was leaning over him when she shot me again. The vest failed because she was using high velocity rounds at close range. The front trauma plate stopped the remnants of the bullet," the words were dry and matter of fact, well rehearsed from the debrief he'd been put through several times before being shipped home. The wound to the thigh had never been severe enough to justify the cane and the limp – but it had been the reason that he hadn't been able to fold himself properly into cover. The sapper had survived further shots into the area beneath John's unconscious body, the dressing that had been fitted prior to his medic being shot saving his life. John's best friend had died in the attack.

"Show me the thigh wound," the order was not entirely unexpected. John sighed in protest but put his hands to his waistband and unfastened his trousers, pushing them down to his knees before standing up again, clasping his shirt in his hands behind his back. He hadn't missed the way the goon with the gun had tensed at his movements.

"Ooh, you naughty boy," Moriarty giggled, toying with the band of his blue briefs, trimmed with red. John stared at the far wall, refusing to be embarrassed. Cold fingers trailed over his thigh, fingering the scar and lingering for a long moment. John's stomach tightened. He wouldn't put it past the psychopath in front of him to attempt a rape. At gunpoint or not, he'd have a hell of a fight on his hands.

"Poor pet," Moriarty giggled, "I remember how much this pained you when I first saw you trailing after Sherlock. Never mind, dearie, we'll take good care of you now."

A phone chimed and Moriarty sighed, pulling his fingers away reluctantly. John was relieved but knew better than to show it.

"I have to go and deal with something, Pet, but I'll be back shortly. Get dressed – you're all goose bumps."

John waited until the door was shut to move, dressing hurriedly and wrapping his arms around his body when done. The gesture wasn't entirely attributable to the cold.

**%&%&%&**


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer – characters and settings as depicted in the BBC series not mine. No money being made. Plot is mine.

**Moriarty**

As his goon opened the front door for him – like an ungainly, oversized butler – Jim could already hear the screams from the van outside. He frowned in displeasure – not only were they shrill and unpleasant, they may well indicate that there had been an injury of some sort, which was not at all what he had ordered. He'd already had to kill one set of goons today; he did so hope that this lot weren't next on his list of things for Sebastian to do.

The side door opened and a goon positively _flew_ out, crashing to the gravel with a pained grunt. Moriarty giggled like a child watching a comedy, the poor fool had practically skidded face first over the rough ground and was bleeding copiously when he got up, which didn't entirely count for the enraged expression on his face.

"Don't hurt her!" Jim snapped the command the way you would to a dog and watched with glee as the man gritted his teeth and reached in gingerly for the flailing mass of street dweller that Moriarty had ordered fetched from under her usual bridge. He had first met Mad Aunty several years ago when she'd stopped a low level drug dealer that Jim was looking to recruit from peddling his wares in her area. Jim had been all set to kill her and move on, but the old woman had a remarkable singing voice that had caught his attention just long enough. He'd chosen to suborn her instead, manipulating her easily enough so that she now called him 'Master' and strove to please him on any little task he threw her way. She was remarkably astute when it came to surveillance and putting patterns together – which was how she'd managed to get his potential dealer locked up – though in all other areas she was completely unremarkable. He wasn't sure – and didn't care – where her abhorrence for illegal drugs came from, seeing it as just another way to manipulate the mad bitch.

"No, no no-no nonononono!" she screeched as she was hauled out of the van as carefully as the goons knew how – which wasn't very, "Leave Aunty alone!"

"Aunty!" Jim barked in a voice guaranteed to get her attention. Sure enough, the filthy woman stopped flailing, craning her neck to get a glimpse of him, "After all the trouble I took to bring you out here to a nice house, you could at least be grateful for it."

"Aunty is grateful, Master Jim, very grateful. Aunty didn't know it was you that wanted her," the ingratiating tones were only a small improvement on her screeching, but at least she was quieter now. Jim sniffed and put his hands in his pocket, showing her a pout and disappointed eyes. That particular look was a lock for getting her to shut up and pay attention to what he was saying; she'd fall all over herself to do whatever he asked.

"It's a nice job too," Jim sniffed, milking the moment with superb skill – if he did say so himself, "A warm clean place to sleep, food every day and only one small task to do while you're here. You can even have a bath."

Jim seriously hoped that she did so – she reeked.

"Aunty is ready to work, Master Jim, ready to work," she simpered, standing docilely in the grip of his two very bruised, scratched and bleeding goons. The old hell-cat had put up a struggle that was for sure.

"All you have to do is keep guard on a prisoner of mine. You're to feed him once a day and let him out to the bathroom three times a day. I'll know if you haven't Aunty and there will be punishment if you don't," Moriarty rocked on his heels, bored with the whole thing already. He wanted to get back to London and see what Sherlock was up to – it was sure to be much more interesting than this.

"Oh yes, Master, Aunty will do that," the madwoman nodded vehemently. Jim grinned: she was no match for Pet at all – he'd be able to overpower her in a heartbeat and be on his way, which meant that Jim would get to punish them both. He had some delightful ideas in mind for Pet in particular.

"And one more thing," Jim's voice went cold and hard, "If he escapes I'll kill you. Slowly."

He beamed at the abject terror on the old woman's face and clapped his hands. This was going to be _fun_.

"You two, unload the supplies for her and the rest of the gear. Aunty, go inside – my driver will show you where the prisoner is being kept. There's a lock on his door, but not on any other, so mind you don't let him escape dearie!" Jim waved a hand, "And don't be too long, you. I want to get back to London at once."

"Yes sir," his driver was particularly good at following orders without being excessively annoying, which Jim appreciated in a goon. Of course, one day the man would let him down and Jim would have to have him killed, but for now he appreciated the benefits of a well trained man behind the wheel.

He fired a quick text off to Sebastian with instructions to begin training a new driver – it never hurt to have a spare – and then settled in the backseat of his car, crossing his legs fastidiously and pulling up the Angry Birds application on his phone. He did so hate waiting.

**&%&%&**


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer – characters and settings as depicted in the BBC series not mine. No money being made. Plot is mine.

**John**

John had seen some odd things in his life – both as a doctor and a soldier – but the woman that opened his door three hours after Moriarty left was something else again. He didn't need Sherlock to tell him she was a homeless woman, her malnutrition, the dirt engrained in certain parts of her skin and the wear patterns on her clothes were all clear markers. She was crying as she shuffled in, wringing her hands as she edged through the door.

"Hey," John got up from where he was sitting, keeping his movements slow and easy, "It's ok. Are you hurt?"

"Not yet, not yet," she mumbled, "Aunty will be though, as soon as you leave. Master has said that he'll kill Aunty slowly."

John was not surprised that Moriarty was threatening the woman, though his heart went out to her. She was obviously not the full ticket, something that Moriarty no doubt exploited with casual disregard.

"Aunty has to let you out three times a day and feed you once and there is only one lock… Master will be so very angry at Aunty when you run," she wept. John frowned and stuck his hands in his pockets, thinking quickly.

It wasn't hard to see that as a guard, this old woman was the worst choice the criminal mastermind could make. She would be no match for John to overpower, which meant that Moriarty was probably hoping he'd do so. John had no doubt that he'd be caught fairly quickly, and Moriarty would then had the opportunity to tell John that whatever torture lay ahead he'd brought onto himself.

It seemed too obvious to John. Surely there was a catch somewhere, but at the moment he couldn't see it. Putting the puzzle aside for later, John focussed on his weeping guard. He took a breath and then toed his shoes off, stepping back from them until he was leaning on the back wall.

"I can't run if I don't have shoes," John said simply, "You take them, hide them somewhere I can't find and then you don't have to worry, right?"

"Take your shoes?" Aunty – or at least that was how she'd referred to herself – mumbled, then nodded, her face clearing slowly, "You can't run without running shoes… take your shoes… Aunty will be back, you wait there: Aunty will be back later."

"Ok, Aunty," John smiled, pleased to see that she'd stopped crying. The moment the door was shut he stepped out in front of the camera and gave it his best 'don't be an idiot' look. Even Sherlock had been known to pause under the weight of that look. Whatever game Moriarty was playing, John wasn't going to play. He'd seen the route that Sherlock had been led down and he wasn't as smart as his flatmate.

Point made, he leaned back against the wall and waited for Aunty to return.

**%&%&%&**

Jim spent quite a few hours with the footage of the Pet in his prison. He made screen captures of several more interesting moments, including the grimace of pain that Pet made upon awakening and several delicious shots of Pet undressing and Jim touching him. He sent the first one, of Pet dangling limply from the Goons hands, off to Sherlock and then turned his attention to replacing those same Goons. Moran had been as thorough as usual, so no loose ends to worry about there.

Sherlock had not enjoyed the little present that Jim had left him – a corrupted epipen that had injected a dose of his usual poison – cocaine at seven percent. It had sent him into something of a spin, apparently once he'd kicked the habit his system had become rather sensitive, poor dear, so his family – particularly that brother who insisted on reigning Sherlock in just when he was about to be truly interesting – stepped in and committed him to a private facility to get him clean once more. That took a week – a week of watching the Pet exercise in his prison and walk obediently to and from the facilities when Aunty let him out.

Jim had been shocked that the Pet had handed his shoes over to Aunty – obviously as a guarantee of good behaviour – and then given the camera a look of such scorn that even Jim had felt the impact. He'd been scorned by experts, but always there had been a thread of fear beneath that scorn: Pet hadn't been afraid at all. It seemed that Pet was a bit smarter than Jim had supposed – he'd realised that it was a trap and was not going to play. As punishment, Jim left him in the room for a week with nothing to do – boredom being the ultimate punishment as far as anyone with a modicum of intelligence was concerned. Pet reacted by starting an exercise routine and sitting still for hours meditating – or at least that was what it looked like.

Sherlock got out of hospital and received his first present – the picture of the Pet and the Goons and threw a _spectacular_ tantrum. Suddenly the lower orders of Moriarty's network were scrambling to get away from the police and Sherlock's wrath. Moriarty was amused – he hadn't known that Sherlock had managed to penetrate the lower orders of his network at all – and allowed the dear boy to clean house for him. Just as Sherlock's wrath began to wane, Jim sent him a second picture, John grimacing in pain on the floor, watching as the tantrum whipped up once more.

In the meantime, Pet refused to succumb to boredom, which was frustrating, but telling. It seemed from the report that Aunty gave Moran, that Pet was 'watching movies in his head' whatever that meant and singing. Aunty apparently sang along sometimes, which made Jim glad that there was no sound with the camera. If Pet was too stupid to be bored, then Jim would have to change tactics. He sent a packet of crayons – childish things for a childish man – and instructions that Pet was allowed to have a blanket to sleep on as well. Moriarty had spent a few minutes watching him shiver one night and felt moved to alleviate that discomfort, though he wasn't sure why.

In between enjoying Sherlock's tantrum – the man had a variety of interesting ways to make Jim 'pay' for taking his Pet – and reorganising his network so that the less profitable parts of it were pruned – Jim researched the psychology that would lead the Pet to voluntarily lock himself in a prison with a token guard. After all, Jim had given him a perfectly worthless person – someone that had no merit, contributed nothing to society, had no personal connection with Pet and was standing in the way of his freedom. Jim had expected Pet to run at the first opportunity, even knowing that Mad Aunty would pay a price for his defection. Anyone else would have knocked the old woman down and run at the first opportunity, would not have thought twice about it.

Pet had stayed. Jim had expected him to at least realise there would be consequences for himself if he was recaptured, but he also had thought that the soldier part of Pet would be cocky enough to assume that he could escape from Jim's detection. To top it all off, Pet made an effort to reassure Aunty that he wouldn't try to escape – that he would in fact stay. By doing so he had ensured that she treated him well, allowed him toilet breaks regularly and didn't cry all over him every time she had to open the door.

He'd tried to bore Pet into escaping, but that didn't work either. So then, in a fit of temper, he'd sent Pet a childish gift. That didn't work either – Pet had accepted them happily and taken to drawing on the wall: or that was the report from the goon that Jim had sent to check on him. Jim made a mental note to check that no messages or codes were in the pictures – provided they were something more than stick figures and random patterns.

That was for later, though. For now he had a major drug deal to orchestrate, three jewellery heists which would finance a purchase of illegal weapons which would further assist him in some trades down the line.

Also he had to send Sherlock a delicious picture of himself touching Pet while his clothes were off.

**&%&%&**


	6. Chapter 6

Disclaimer – characters and settings as depicted in the BBC series not mine. No money being made. Plot is mine.

**John**

The thing about mad geniuses, John supposed, was that they were so far removed from 'normal' that they had a hard time relating to it. Thus, his first week as Moriarty's captive was boring but not painful, though he was very cold at night. Once the crayons arrived, he had something to do and the perfect canvas to do it with.

It was a little known fact that John was quite good at drawing. He wasn't an artist – his talent was all self taught – but he was able to produce pictures that actually looked like something, had the correct proportions and perspective and didn't make the viewers mind melt just by looking at them. The back wall under the camera was quite large, so he'd started on a city-scape, cobbling interesting buildings that he'd seen in pictures or in person from a wide variety of countries. He'd added in some 'futuristic' touches as well, and Aunty had spent an hour once examining it.

During the third week – John was keeping track by sheer force of will – he began to wonder if Sherlock had died at the Pool, or been seriously injured. Of all the outcomes he'd imagined to this scenario – and during that first week of boredom his imagination had gone wild several times – being held for this long had not been an outcome he'd predicted. John had expected Sherlock to find him by now, or for Moriarty to be bored of whatever game he was playing and either kill him outright, torture him slowly to death or lock him up and let him starve to death.

Instead, nothing had happened. He'd heard a van come once a week to deliver food to Mad Aunty and sometimes he'd heard the driver or passenger speak to her, but no one other than his 'guard' had been near him for three entire weeks.

Had he been a weaker man, John would have thought that Sherlock had left him to the tender mercies of his enemy, but John knew better than that. Sherlock would be working on the problem, if only because he would find it unacceptable that Moriarty was keeping John away from him. The quickest way to get Sherlock to do something was to tell him he couldn't. The quickest way to get him to want something was to say he couldn't have it – which was why John labelled food 'hands off' when he wanted Sherlock to eat.

Deep down, though, idiosyncrasies and declarations of sociopathy aside, John knew that Sherlock Holmes was his friend – and that friend cared about John's well-being. Whatever it was that had happened at the Pool while he was unconscious must have been pretty serious to keep Sherlock from him for this long. John just hoped that Sherlock was taking care of himself – because the ex-soldier doubted that he could last in a battle of wits against Moriarty for long.

Sherlock occupied a large part of John's focus if he was ill disciplined enough to allow his mind to wander. Was his flatmate taking care of himself, was he still free or a prisoner elsewhere? Was he well? Sherlock certainly didn't need John to take care of him – the man was a grown adult after all and more than capable – but John had, in the months he'd spent with Sherlock, gotten into the habit of nagging him to eat or sleep or generally take better care of himself. Comments that would have enraged his friend from anyone else were accepted – or at least serenely ignored – from John. His eccentric friend had done John the honour of adding the ex-soldier to his mental landscape, making John a fixture of his daily life.

Of course there were days when John felt he was nothing more than a medically qualified servant-come-carry all with the added bonus of being able to handle a gun without shooting himself, but he'd never taken that to heart. It was Sherlock's way: things that would have driven John insane in another person seemed laughably eccentric in his friend.

John just wished his friend was here – preferably with reinforcements. Something had to give soon.

**%&%&%**

Jim decided that he wasn't getting anywhere with his research into Pet's behaviour: and as he had to take care of a rather weasley idiot who'd thought he could skim from Jim's profits and get away with it, he decided to run a little experiment of his own. He'd had Moran take pictures of Pet's artwork – which had been nothing special to be sure, despite the fact that it spread over the entire back wall and there was even what appeared to be a sketch of Sherlock in silhouette at the top of one of the buildings – and had sent another box of crayons in fluorescent colours, just for fun.

Sherlock was being ominously quiet at the moment: that last picture of Pet standing at gunpoint while Jim trailed his fingers over scarred flesh had stopped his playmate in his tracks. Jim wasn't too sure if Sherlock was merely plotting or it there was something interesting in the works and so he assigned a few more assets to keep an eye on the dear boy while he worked on his own little conundrum.

He'd had a few of the boys go out and locate a few of the many homeless people that roamed England willy nilly, making sure that they got a variety of ages in the mix and had them tied up securely in a little warehouse he had specially renovated to contain prisoners for a day or so before they were shipped to their ultimate destination. He'd had Moran go and collect their skimmer of funds, ensuring that his most useful employee wasn't too gentle in his 'collection'.

The skimmer – and Jim had been calling him that for so long that he'd forgotten the mans real name, not that it had ever really mattered to begin with – had soiled himself while being collected, so Jim had Moran hose him down before Jim would speak to him. Really, was it that hard to maintain control of ones bodily functions? You'd think he was only just out of potty training!

Once everything was ready, Jim had Moran remove the sack over the skimmers head and allowed him to take his situation in properly. It was very dramatically lit with spotlights, and the mood was positively screaming with tension, just the way Jim liked it. He rubbed his hands together gleefully, wanting to get on with his little experiment.

"Do you know who I am?" Jim purred from the shadows. The skimmer had never met him face to face, but only an imbecile would be unaware of who he was facing and no matter what Jim thought of the man, he wasn't quite an imbecile.

"Yes," the whimper had a delicious thread of fear and resignation to it. The three homeless people – an old man, a young girl and a teenage boy – or game pieces as Moran had called them, looked around in fear. He'd instructed that they be bound but not gagged as he wanted the skimmer to be able to converse with them. They had no idea who he was, but that was beside the point.

"You've taken something that is mine," Jim tutted disapprovingly, "There are _consequences_ when that happens."

"I'll tell you where it is, I'll give it back! Please!" the skimmer cowered where he knelt, "I'm sorry!"

"Oh I know you will," Jim hissed, "In fact, I've already got it!"

"I'll do whatever you want, please, don't kill me!"

Jim wrinkled his nose, displeased. Really, how tedious could one man be? It was bad enough that he'd stolen from Jim in the first place, but now he was being downright dull.

"I want you to make a choice, but if you don't shut up I'll have you shot like a dog and left in the sun to rot," Jim allowed his anger and boredom to turn his tone colder than ice, watching as the skimmer nodded and bit his lip in an effort to stay silent. Jim paced around the edge of the light, allowing his footfalls to echo through the space, watching as his captives struggled to turn their heads to keep track of him. He enjoyed the ridiculous contortions for a few laps then stopped again.

"I'm giving you a choice. Beside you are three people. You don't know them, but you hold their lives in your hands. I want you to choose who will be killed – you or them," Jim stated it simply, keeping his voice level and crisp. He didn't want to confuse the issue after all, "I will allow you to converse for a minute, just one mind, with your fellow captors and then I want your choice."

There was silence as the four people in front of him struggled to work out what he meant. He'd had the three game pieces warned that if they spoke without permission they'd be killed outright – in fact they'd started with four people, but one just wouldn't shut up and Jim had shot him and had a minion drag the body away. That action had the affect of silencing the remaining three and ensuring their obedience, which was why Jim had done it, really.

That and he had enjoyed the pretty way the lifeless body had looked, sprawled at his feet in an ungainly pose.

"Talk!" Jim barked and immediately there was a babble of sound from the other three, pleading with the skimmer for his life. It was interesting to hear the various arguments employed, from a simple 'I don't want to die' to a rather cunning 'you're dead anyway mate, you could at least save us'.

Jim ticked the seconds off and then slipped his gun – or rather the gun that Moran provided for him on the rare occasions that he felt like shooting something, or someone – and cocked it deliberately. The sound silenced the four people arguing in front of him and he hummed in approval.

"Well? What is your choice? Who do I shoot?" Jim kept his eyes glued to the skimmer, looking for that moment of decision and trying to follow the steps that led up to it. He'd been able to see all this with Pet of course, but he hadn't understood it. He watched closely, matching the thoughts to the expressions and body language in front of him. It was a bit like reading a book where some of the key letters had been swapped around. He could follow the story but the deeper meaning was harder to get to.

"Them," the skimmer gasped, "Shoot them!"

"Off you go then," Jim sighed, "The door is just behind you, run along."

He watched the skimmer lurch to his feet and lumber awkwardly away to his freedom, the door slamming shut behind him. Moran would kill him once he was in the corridor proper, as agreed. The three game pieces in front of him were pleading for their lives again, but fell silent as he stepped into the light.

"I don't understand it," Jim told them, gesturing vaguely with the gun in his hand, "Ah well; I suppose I'll have to put further research into the problem. If it's any comfort, Pet would have saved you, had he been here."

Jim sniffed and fired three times. He stood for a long moment, appreciating the pretty pattern he'd made on the floor, then put the safety back on the gun and tucked it back into his pocket. He sent a text to have the warehouse cleaned up by the usual disposal crew.

That had been a disappointment. He was no closer to working out Pet's behaviour than he'd been before.

Pondering variations to the experiment, Jim left the soundproof room behind, stepping over the blood in the corridor fastidiously. He'd have to reprimand Moran for being so untidy.

**%&%&%&**


	7. Chapter 7

Disclaimer – characters and settings as depicted in the BBC series not mine. No money being made. Plot is mine.

**John**

John had nearly finished the second box of crayons when he had his next visit from his captor. It had been four weeks in captivity now and he'd gotten so accustomed to being in the basement that he rarely looked up when Aunty opened the door. He was due for a bathroom break and Aunty was like clockwork when it came to letting him out to the loo. She liked looking at the picture and John was in the middle of adding details to the lower part of a representation of the Chrysler Building.

"Pictures don't do it justice," the voice was childlike and gleeful and John turned slowly, cold running down his spine. Moriarty stood in the doorway, his hands clasped under his chin as he looked at the picture that John had spent four weeks drawing.

"Hello Mr Moriarty," John kept his voice even through great effort. He added a few more strokes of the crayon and straightened, moving to stand against the wall so the madman had a clear view. He watched as Moriarty stepped slowly into the room, his eyes darting all over the picture John had used to stave off his boredom.

When Moriarty got within arms length of the wall he reached out and ran a hand over it, his fingers only millimetres away from the walls surface.

'_Doesn't like to get his hands dirty_,' John recalled.

"Very good, Pet," Moriarty cooed, "Who knew?"

John nodded but didn't say anything. He didn't want to engage in a conversation with the nutter who held his life in his hands, nor did he want to risk making him mad and getting killed over something stupid.

"I have to say, Pet, you interest me greatly," Moriarty murmured, stooping to examine the foot of the Eiffel Tower, "I've tried to recreate your little situation here – where someone has to make a choice between themselves and a homeless person… even more than one. And every time, they chose to save their lives and let the homeless ones die. Only you have chosen to keep you both alive by remaining here in captivity. I've tried three different scenarios and all with the same result."

John's mouth dried out in horror – how many people had Moriarty killed trying to get them to behave as John had? He couldn't tell you why he still stayed now – originally he'd stayed because he hadn't trusted his ability to outsmart Moriarty during an escape and nor had he wanted to see a harmless woman die simply because he'd wanted to be free. The reasons for staying changed from day to day.

"It's alright Pet," Moriarty quirked a little smile at him that was also quite frightening, "I'll work it out eventually."

The madman came over and ran his fingers over John's face lightly. John stood still, well aware that he was being watched from the doorway by one of Moriarty's Goons.

"Hmmm, I do so look forward to getting to know you better," Moriarty cooed, stepping back and looking John over from head to toe. He spun around and perused the wall again, stepping back and clasping his hands behind his back, rocking up on his toes several times.

"You need more space," Moriarty cooed, stepping back with a chilling smile. His voice changed to a cold flat tone on the next word, as was his habit, "Now."

John frowned, and then flinched as the Goon in the doorway shot a dart into his shoulder. As the drug washed over him, John lowered himself to the floor, preferring not to risk an injury in a fall.

When he woke, he was wearing a pair of designer jeans and a jumper that cost more than a month of rent at Baker Street.

What really concerned him was that the clothes he was wearing now weren't the clothes that he'd been wearing ever since the Pool. Careful checking revealed that he wasn't even wearing underwear, which was more than a little disturbing.

The new room had carpet – newly laid, thus thankfully clean – and skylights but no windows. There were four large, blank walls and twenty boxes of crayons sitting in the middle of the floor. The camp bed that John had woken on was a huge improvement over a blanket on the floor but John had a fierce longing for his own bed in Baker Street, where he could enter and leave at will and no one was watching him through a camera.

"Sherlock, come find me," John muttered. He wasn't sure how much longer he could stand this.

%&%&%


	8. Chapter 8

Disclaimer – characters and settings as depicted in the BBC series not mine. No money being made. Plot is mine.

**Moriarty**

Jim had taken a perfectly _wicked_ set of pictures of him and the Pet, especially once the Pet was nude. The scars that had pained Pet so much at the beginning were different when Pet was asleep and Jim had spent no little time examining them, pressing carefully and comparing skin textures. He'd seen scars on other people before of course: he'd been the cause of quite a few scars himself, but he'd never had a chance to properly examine one and so he'd taken some time over it, taking care not to leave any damage or marks behind that would alert Pet to the examination.

Pet did not seem too happy with his gift – Jim had made sure that there were four completely blank walls for Pet to play with – waking from the drugs in a decidedly unhappy frame of mind. For an instant, Jim had been furious that Pet was so ungrateful, but the moment passed and Pet seemed to recover his normal placid temper, examining the crayons Jim had left him carefully and spending a day in exercise before taking up his first crayon and starting on the wall furthest from the door.

Sherlock had gone quiet in the interim. The tantrum had run its course and even the picture of Jim touching Pet in the first cage had garnered little response. This was quite irksome and so Jim had decided to spend a little time setting up a new Game for Sherlock to play with him while he studied Pet and tried to work out why it was that someone would choose to save a homeless person at the cost of their own life. While Pet was technically still alive, if you could call drawing on the walls of your cage living, there was no way he would survive captivity in the long-term. That had never been Jim's intention – or at least not at the start. The thought of killing Pet had… lost some appeal.

In the midst of setting the wheels of his new Game in motion – and there would be some very _delicious_ puzzles to figure out and if Sherlock was _very_ good, he'd allow the man to go and see Pet's drawing for himself – a small crisis erupted in connection with one of the gangs that Jim had a henchman's henchman run which required a more personal touch than he usually employed. With reluctance, Jim put the new Game on hold, sending Sherlock a picture of Pet standing with his arms wrapped around himself, staring soulfully at the ground. Pet had been cold, but the effect was terribly forlorn and showed that he'd lost some weight during captivity. Satisfied that the image would give Sherlock something to think about, Jim turned his efforts to arranging the up-coming meeting.

It was all so very _dreary_ and as a result Jim was in quite a homicidal mood when he called the henchmen responsible to an in-person meeting. As he wasn't planning to let them live very long, Jim would attend himself rather than just sending a stooge along. Moran was not best pleased by it all, which made for some highly amusing sulking and one very entertaining tantrum. Jim quite enjoyed the spectacle and absolutely _savoured_ the way the man came to heel at the first sign of Jim's displeasure. Moran may not have been a highly trained thinker, but he certainly was a well trained _minion_.

As a meeting place, Jim decided to use a very dramatic church that had fallen into a state of disrepair after it was abandoned by its flock. The thought of killing on 'sacred ground' held no weight with Jim, but the half ruined place made for some very dramatic lighting, not to mention a few picturesque backdrops against which to pose. The acoustics weren't half bad either – Jim did so love the echoes that he could awaken and the way he could make the merest whisper travel. It was a bit of a rabbit's warren, which meant Moran would have to work harder than usual to secure it, but Jim never let the toil of others disturb him.

The meeting was set at midnight – just because – during the full moon. Jim dressed carefully for the occasion and allowed Moran to precede him there with a couple of his better trained marksmen to secure the site. The soon to be ex-henchmen were on time – no one made Jim wait, ever – and he spent a delicious twenty minutes allowing them to think that the other one would die before announcing that they would have to choose who survived. This was another chance to gather data on Pet's odd instinct to save Aunty. Thanks to Pet's decision she was back under her bridge, the proud owner of Pet's jacket and trousers, which had been much better than her own. Jim had left Pet's shoes and underthings in Pet's former cage and kept the battered jumper for himself.

He had yet to get consistent results on this series experiments and was beginning to wonder if the criminal class was the wrong pool from which to draw his subjects. Criminals had reputations built on past actions, which made them easier to predict – after all in their business, reputation was everything. Making a mental note to explore the possibility of kidnapping random civilians and repeating the experiments with them, Jim focussed just in time to see the henchmen in front of him duck.

"Moriarty!" Sherlock's voice shouted, "Where is John?"

This was completely unprecedented. How had he missed Sherlock suborning or infiltrating his organisation at this level? Had his fascination with Pet led to this?

"Sherlock, dear," Jim purred, "How delightful to see you!"

And it was a delight. Sherlock was all pale skin and dramatic hair and that wonderful coat. His eyes were sparking with indignation and Jim clapped his hands in glee.

"I want John back," Sherlock growled, sending quivers of delight down Jim's back. What a lovely tone that was!

"I'm afraid I'm not quite done with him, lovely, but perhaps I can spare you a _piece_… what would you like? An eye? A finger? His ears?" Jim purred, "He's not using his feet at the moment, would you like one? Or perhaps his bollocks? It's no trouble."

"Don't you dare," Sherlock breathed, fire spitting in his eyes. A lesser man would have been afraid, but Jim had never worried too much about threats. Many had tried and all had failed to bring him down. As clever as Sherlock was, there was still no real threat in this situation.

"Or you'll what, Sherlock?" Jim made his voice cold. Impotent or not, he didn't like to hear Sherlock defy him in that tone, "And before you go making promises you cannot keep, remember: I'm holding all the cards. A word from me and you'll have your Pet back one piece at a time."

"You're not fooling anyone, Jim," Sherlock snarled, "He's dead, I know it. You'll keep doling out pictures like treats, but at the end all I'll have is his body. I want him back now and in one piece or you won't like the consequences."

Jim scowled. As little as he liked the idea of harming Pet, who had been a very good boy for the duration of his captivity, he had no choice now. On the other hand, it would be interesting to see if the removal of a body part would be enough to shake Pet's loyalty to Sherlock. The thought cheered him up and Jim bounced on his toes lightly, offering Sherlock a cherubic smile.

"Just for that, I will send you part of him in a box," Jim informed his opposite, "It will be interesting and might even answer a question I've been thinking about. Thank you, darling. Before tonight I had been rather stuck, but now I think I'll be seeing Pet's true nature very soon."

Sherlock positively snarled and several things happened at once. Two of the six snipers in the shadows suddenly fell into the light, unconscious. Moran shouted in the distance and began firing into the church. Sherlock pointed a gun at Jim and pulled the trigger five times before dark clad figures impacted against him and knocked him safely out of Moran's line of fire.

The most unexpected thing of all was that the bullets that Sherlock fired actually made their way into Jim's body.

"he shot me," the stunned whisper was the last thing Jim said as darkness swallowed him up. Moran's arms were the last thing he felt around him.

%&%&%


	9. Chapter 9

Disclaimer – characters and settings as depicted in the BBC series not mine. No money being made. Plot is mine.

**John**

John had started a ruined temple on the wall opposite the door – one that was being swallowed by a jungle. He'd contemplated drawing Baker Street – the front room and the kitchen view – but had decided in the end that he didn't need to torture himself like that: it was bad enough that Moriarty was keeping him locked up as it was.

He'd only been there for a short while – five days or so – when his daily round of exercise was interrupted by the door slamming open and a rather deadly looking individual stepping in. John had no time to react, not even to straighten up from the squat thrusts he was doing when his attacker was upon him, wrestling him to the ground and tying his hands roughly behind his back.

"If he dies, so do you," the chilling words were growled into his ear and then he was yanked rather painfully to his feet and dragged from the room, bundled down a corridor and down a flight of stairs. He calculated that they actually descended three floors before he was dragged out into another corridor and along to a new room. The walls and floors here were carefully decorated and much cleaner than his space upstairs. He hissed in shock as his bare feet hit the cold tiles of the new room and then gasped in shock.

It was an operating theatre, with an attached room for a patient to spend their recovery in. On the gurney in the middle of the theatre part lay Jim Moriarty, conscious and bleeding from several holes in his body. None were centre mass – in fact it looked like whoever had shot him had been attempting to get around the body armour that Jim was apparently wearing under his shirt. There were two holes in said shirt low in the abdomen and John knew from experience that shots there caused bruising that could get deep enough to affect bowel function, among other things.

"Pet?" the voice was weak and pain filled, "You won't let me die, will you? You saved Aunty…"

"Untie me," John didn't bother to look at the man that had dragged him here as he snapped the order, "Now."

His hands were freed and John stepped over to the sink at the side, pulling his jumper off and tossing it to the floor before washing up thoroughly – hygiene was difficult in captivity – and pulling on the smock hanging near the sink. He snapped gloves on and bent over his patient to examine the man, blocking his personal knowledge of Moriarty off as he did so.

It wasn't as difficult a feat as most thought. Good doctors were able to walk the fine line between disassociation and empathy with every patient they treated, allowing them to practice medicine without prejudice and with compassion. This wasn't the madman that had abducted him and tortured people in his name; this was a young man with multiple gunshot wounds and trauma.

The operating theatre – or treatment room to be more precise – was well stocked. John was not surprised to see that there were units of blood stored there especially for Moriarty, nor was he shocked to see the array of drugs available to him to treat his patient. He'd sedated the man on the table before starting treatment, the better to work without distractions and then proceeded to order this new captor about in a cool tone, ignoring the mans glowers and flinches as John dug three slugs out of his patient and sewed the resulting wounds shut.

He moved methodically, precisely and without haste, ensuring that his patient would not near further, more invasive treatment by getting it right now. There was even an x-ray machine in the treatment room, as well as an ultra sound and by the time he was ready to move his patient to the small recovery room and hook him up to the monitors waiting there John was certain that the injuries would be recovered from in time.

He saw his patient settled and then cleaned up the treatment room, wiping it down thoroughly and washing himself off quickly before donning his expensive jumper again. The minion – John hadn't been given a name and didn't care to know it either – gestured to a chair beside the patients' bed and sent a text.

John sat down gratefully. It had been a long time since he'd practiced emergency medicine and even longer since he'd been involved in such sustained activity without opportunity for a break. Even though he exercised daily, he always had the opportunity to stop if he wanted to, so his endurance wasn't as high as it used to be. Five minutes after he sat down another minion slid in through the door, giving the bed and its occupant a wide eyed glance and then cringing when the man-in-charge loomed over him.

"Watch him," the first man snarled, "If anything goes wrong I'll kill you."

"You do realise that while he's out of danger for now, complications could set in?" John interjected from his chair wearily while the new minion nodded fervently, "I'm a doctor, not God."

"He dies, you die," the repeated threat was uttered with an air of finality and the first minion swept from the room. John sighed and reached over to check his patients' pulse the old fashioned way, with his fingers on a wrist. Even though there was a heart monitor flashing away – John had disabled the sounds the monitor made because they were so annoying – he knew that patient's often reacted better to a more personal touch.

No matter what he thought of the man in the bed, John would not compromise his oath as a doctor. His patient would get the best care he could give simply because he was a patient.

That didn't mean that part of him was hoping that Sherlock would somehow be able to take advantage of this situation and find him sooner.

%&%&%


	10. Chapter 10

Disclaimer – characters and settings as depicted in the BBC series not mine. No money being made. Plot is mine.

**Moriarty**

Had he been in any sort of condition to enter into conversation on how he expected to wake up – or even _if_ he expected to wake up for that matter – Jim would not have predicted this.

He had doctors at his beck and call of course – men and women alike that he had suborned for just this purpose, but Jim had never expected that the quality of care they would afford him would allow him to wake from serious injuries in anything close to approaching this level of comfort. He'd know even as he fell that he was in serious trouble – the wounds were not instantly life threatening but they did pose something of a challenge in the area of after treatment care.

He didn't have a clear recollection of the events immediately following their escape, but he had a hazy idea that he'd insisted on seeing Pet at one point; because if Pet was willing to sacrifice his life for Mad Aunty, surely the man would take proper care of his wounds?

Now he lay comfortably in a bed, pain dulled by drugs, monitors making a low noise to one side.

"Mr Moriarty?" the voice was familiar, and he frowned, trying to place it. Gentle hands touched his wrist and arm and Jim opened his eyes to the rather exhausted visage of Pet, who was standing beside him and looking at the monitors. Jim grunted and Pet glanced down at him, his face calm. Bright eyes flicked over him for a moment and then Pet let go, fetching water and a straw, lifting his head carefully and allowing him to sip at his leisure.

"How is the pain?" Pet asked, lowering his head carefully, "You shouldn't be too uncomfortable at the moment – I gave you a shot an hour ago."

"Its fine," Jim sniffed, his voice weaker than he would have liked. Pet nodded and straightened the blankets with deft touches, sitting on a hard chair beside his bed. From the grimace, it appeared that Pet had been there ever since Jim had arrived, however long that was.

Jim closed his eyes again, thinking furiously about what had happened. Sherlock had _betrayed_ him, had in fact attempted to kill him, something that Jim had never once believed to be possible. True, Jim had Pet and Sherlock was annoyed about that – the man did so hate to share – but shooting Jim over the situation was a bit of an over reaction to say the least!

And there was also the quandary of how to respond to that insult. The most natural reaction in the world would be to take his pain and frustration out on Pet… but those hands were back, touching him with gentle care, seeing to his needs with calm competence. Dressings were changed and when Jim grimaced in discomfort a soothing voice offered kind words to distract him while the procedure continued.

It was care at its finest, even though the man ministering to his wounds had been held prisoner for well over a month, locked away with nothing but a blanket and a box of crayons for company. Pet was not stupid – Pet knew that he was living on borrowed time, but still he treated his captor with the same care and attention he'd treated other patients. Not even Jim's own mother had treated him with this much care, though she'd payed for what she'd done fully before the end…

He'd thought that Sherlock was his friend: that the game they were playing was a bit of harmless fun. In as much as a man like Jim was capable of feeling a positive emotion in regards to another human being – Jim had no delusions about his own mental state, after all – he'd always thought that Sherlock understood him. He'd been misunderstood his whole life, even Moran didn't comprehend all of Jim Moriarty, but in Sherlock he'd thought… After all, who else would understand him if not a genius sociopath who faced the same problems with boredom as he did? Sherlock had loved the Game they'd played, even as the people around him bleated mundane warnings about what was proper and decent.

He hadn't anticipated Sherlock actually _liking_ Pet to the degree that the man would fret when they were apart. He certainly had been entertained by Sherlock's preliminary tantrum, but he hadn't expected that his friend – enemy now, because Jim didn't forgive and forget when it came to being shot, no matter _who_ fired the bullet – would turn on him over something as simple as a bit of teasing over a third party. All his life, the people around him had wanted something from him – his mind, his body, his influence. Even those he allowed closest – like Moran – only did so because that closeness conferred a certain amount of deferred power to their own cause. No one had ever really cared what he wanted… he'd been betrayed by so many…

"Why?" Jim breathed the question, opening his eyes. Pet's beard had become fully established and the man was pale with exhaustion. He was favouring his bad shoulder, which meant the chair was doing more harm than good now.

"Why what, Mr Moriarty?" Pet asked quietly, touching Jim's forehead lightly. Jim turned into the touch, pressing against it wordlessly and Pet's hand lingered for a long moment. Jim didn't answer, basking in the touch of someone who wasn't about to hurt him, nor trying to manipulate him. For the first time in his life, Jim Moriarty felt safe.

The sensation was indescribable.

In an instant he'd made up his mind. Pet would not suffer for Sherlock's betrayal. Jim would find another way to punish his new enemy.

**%&%&%&**


	11. Chapter 11

Disclaimer – characters and settings as depicted in the BBC series not mine. No money being made. Plot is mine.

**John**

After five days of round-the-clock care – not that he'd ever been that badly off, it was more that the Goons refused to let John leave their bosses bedside – John's shoulder and back were ready to seize up permanently. He'd been sitting in the same chair for five days straight and had been lucky to get a toilet break.

Moriarty's injuries weren't severe – the three bullets that had found flesh had been placed with precision to cause maximum pain – but with no medical history and his own life on the line, John wasn't about to take any risks.

Also, he was in the unusual position of having to second guess himself. The drugs that he had access to were addictive – it would be very easy to addict and then manipulate his patient to his own advantage. John was determined not to perjure his oath, thus the second guessing. In addition to this he was under constant, ignorant, surveillance: having to explain himself every time he administered a treatment was not conducive to peaceful practice.

He hadn't seen the other thug, or head-minion-in-charge as John had come to label him, since the initial treatment and ultimatum. He knew that the goon watching him sent regular reports on Moriarty's progress. He knew that Moriarty himself was probably keeping some sort of tally on John's standard of care and how much pain was caused with each change of dressings and other, more intimate maintenance chores. John had inserted a catheter during initial treatment, and that needed to be kept clean at the insertion site among other things.

In between his duties to his patient – who slept for the most part, waking sporadically – John pondered who would have had the audacity to shoot the master criminal. He knew all too well the temptation to take a pot shot at the man, after all Moriarty's business and pleasure was based on the suffering of others, so there must have been quite the queue to do some harm, if not outright kill him.

He wondered where Sherlock was in all of this. As his captivity dragged on, John was beginning to question if his friend was even alive. A small, traitorous, part of him had dared to suggest that Sherlock wasn't looking for him; that the friendship – even love – that John had felt for his flatmate was not only one sided, but completely misplaced. In the middle of the night when he was struggling to deal with the boredom and uncertainty of his captivity, John found it hard to believe that Baker Street was anything more than a distant dream – a place he'd imagined but would never find: a place he never believed he'd return to.

The nightmares of war were being replaced with dreams of Baker Street – drinking tea and watching telly while Sherlock blew up the microwave, finding body parts in the toaster while Sherlock shouted abuse at his email, tea in his armchair while Sherlock improvised on the violin. Mrs Hudson's cooking, her kindly advice and laughing scolds. Lestrade's dogged patience and Donovan's dismissive presence. He even missed Anderson's stupidity.

The patient in front of him stirred and John put a hand automatically on the nearest wrist. Moriarty reacted poorly to waking un-touched: he became restless and anxious. John had learnt that the quickest way to keep his patient calm was to place a hand on his wrist and squeeze gently – it saved him a lot of bother later down the track.

"Pet?" as always, his patient called for him before even opening his eyes. John wasn't sure why Moriarty was so insistent on his presence – he'd have thought the man would want his prisoner locked up while he was so vulnerable.

"I'm here, Mr Moriarty," John winced his way to his feet and made eye contact. He glanced at the IV and the clock, calculating when the next dose of painkillers was due. They were almost at the end of the antibiotic course, which meant the IV could go soon, and a glance at the catheters bag showed they were not ready for a change there either.

"You look terrible," the sentence didn't make sense for a moment and then John realised his patient was talking about him.

"That chair isn't the most comfortable I've ever slept in," he conceded, "And I haven't shaved since you took me. I only get loo breaks at the moment."

"Go get his bed down here at once," Moriarty snapped at the goon by the door, "And get a razor and the next change of clothes. Put them in my own bathroom."

"Sir, Mr Moran said not to leave you alone," the goon quivered, actually wringing his hands. It was an odd sight.

"Then call someone down here to do it!" John's patient yelled and then winced, a hand pressing to his abdomen. John bent over him, cautioning him against shouting and talking him through the stab of pain. He let Moriarty grasp his wrist tightly, adding finger shaped bruises to his skin while the criminal grimaced at the discomfort. The pain passed but the grip didn't ease, long fingers squeezing his bones together tightly for a moment.

There was a rattle as John's camp bed arrived and was set up against the wall, out of the way. The second goon announced that new clothes and a razor had been placed out as per orders and Moriarty's grip tightened even further for a moment.

"When you come back, I want the jumper you are wearing now," Moriarty instructed, "You'll be clean shaven as well."

"Alright," John nodded, trying not to show how much the grip on his wrist was hurting him. Moriarty sniffed and let go abruptly and John stepped back out of grabbing range, walking obediently towards the second goon who grabbed his upper arm and hustled him out of the hospital room.

John had spent enough time with both Sherlock and the army to know that he needed to memorise his route and look for security strengths and weaknesses. There were plenty of cameras in the main corridors to discourage him from bolting, but thankfully none in the suite he was shown to. It was Moriarty's private suite, consisting of an opulent sitting room, luxurious bedroom and a bathroom almost as big as the flat in Baker Street. There were new clothes, towels and a variety of toiletries and John hesitated for a moment before stripping off and climbing into the shower. It had a massage setting and nozzles set into the walls as well as above – John cranked it up as hot as he could stand and let it work some of the kinks out of his shoulder and back.

The man in the mirror was almost unrecognisable – his hair starting to get too long, the beard well established. John shaved meticulously, enjoying the act almost as much as he had enjoyed the shower. When he was smooth cheeked once more he stepped back into the shower for a final rinse. His hair actually required parting once he dried it, combing it carefully. The new jumper was a red cable knit and the jeans were black – there was no underwear, which was Not Good, but he had socks and a pair of shoes: red converse trainers actually. Feeling a bit like a dress up doll, John tied his laces and folded his last jumper, dropping the thick socks and soiled jeans into the hamper and hanging the towels to dry.

Giving in to the inevitable he re-opened the bathroom door and let the Goon grab his arm again. He felt much more human now and was ready to deal with whatever came next.

**%&%&%**


	12. Chapter 12

Disclaimer – characters and settings as depicted in the BBC series not mine. No money being made. Plot is mine.

**Moriarty**

Jim enjoyed being cared for by Pet. He was very gentle and very calming – his touch affected Jim like no other person on the planet had. Even the few people he'd agreed to trial as lovers hadn't had the affect that Pet's hand on his arm did. It was rather surprising.

Once Jim was able to stay awake for more than a few minutes at a time he demanded a laptop and phone and a handgun, which his Goon kept a close eye on lest Pet get any ideas. As clipping bits off Pet to punish Sherlock was out, Jim had to come up with another way to hurt Sherlock for his betrayal. He'd considered sending some of the pictures of Pet naked to Sherlock, but didn't want to share those – they were too precious to share.

Attacks against the family of his one-time friend were also out: Sherlock either wouldn't care or would have them too well protected to make the plan feasible. Attacks against the people that Sherlock lived and worked with were pointless as well for the same reason - Sherlock either wouldn't care or had already anticipated that action and guarded against it. The only person that Sherlock seemed to care about was Pet and Jim had him already.

Since hurting Pet was out, Jim had to get _creative_. He hacked into bank accounts, suspended services to the Baker Street flat, had things delivered at all hours of the day and night and generally made a nuisance of himself. It wasn't as satisfying as knowing that his ex-friend was fretting his heart out, but it was the best he could do while on heavy painkillers.

And in the meantime, there was Pet. The man was always at his side, at Jim's demand. He slept better with his hand wrapped around Pet's wrist and actually enjoyed watching Pet sleep on the cot Jim had supplied for him. Pet was allowed to bathe once a day and use the loo three times a day. He demanded that Pet feed him by hand and expected massages at regular intervals as the bed was not as comfortable as he'd been led to believe. He'd paid a fortune for the latest gear for an invalid and wasn't enjoying it at all – in fact he was only comfortable when Pet was tending to him or massaging the aches away.

Pet had the endearing habit of muttering as he massaged, detailing the nerves, muscles, tendons, ligaments and bones his fingers were working over in a clinical litany that was oddly reassuring. Jim came to enjoy the sound of Pet's voice so much that he had the man read the daily papers to him.

Moran was still beside himself – positively homicidal in fact – and Jim made sure to let the man take his temper out on someone else. He didn't mind Moran so much – the man was moderately intelligent and quite handy when it came to shooting and plotting manoeuvres and so forth – but there was something about him that wasn't quite right. He lacked something, some element, which made him worthy of Jim's real regard. Not that Jim ever betrayed that by word or look. He was very careful to let Moran think that he was Jim's confidant and most trusted right hand man. After all, he was under no illusions that Moran would turn on him if he thought that Jim saw him in any was as disposable. The poor deluded dear thought he was indispensible to Jim, which was rather amusing and sort of pathetic really.

In fact if anyone had ever come close to being indispensible, it was Pet. Jim was really beginning to understand why Sherlock valued him so highly. Pet was… understated and subtle in his intelligence. He didn't have the knack for people watching that Jim possessed, but that could be trained into him. In fact, Jim was beginning to think that Pet was someone worth cultivating properly to become an integral part of his life.

That was, of course, presuming Jim didn't shoot him over the matter of the damn catheter. It stung and pulled at awkward moments and was generally uncomfortable. Pet insisted, over his wishes, that the thing remain in place until he was able to stay awake for more than an hour at a time and Jim was too weak to really defy him. Not to mention the thought of pulling the thing out himself had no appeal _whatsoever_.

However, four days after waking in the hospital room, Jim was finally able to stay awake for most of the day and Pet agreed to remove the catheter. Pet even offered to give him some drugs to help him relax through the procedure, but Jim refused them. It wasn't that he didn't trust Pet; it was that he disliked the thought of losing control of his muscles in front of his Goon – who refused upon fear of Moran to leave the room.

"It won't be pleasant, Mr Moriarty," Pet warned, donning gloves and laying out a couple of towels. He draped Jim to give him modesty, "You'll need to lie still and I'll be as quick and careful as I can."

"Go on, then," Jim sniffed and Pet reached under the draped towels to touch his penis. Jim started and then blushed as he felt the organ react to the touch, just as it had almost every time that Pet had cleaned the catheter site or bathed his body. He'd always ended up with a raging erection, which Pet had ignored, keeping his touches gentle and smooth.

Jim wondered if it would be possible to explore the effect of Pet's touches further, then he winced and squirmed, one hand latching onto Pet's wrist for a moment and squeezing.

"Owwwwww," he complained, his toes curling in discomfort, "I don't like that at all!"

"Stay still, please, we're almost done," Pet's voice was calm and even. The tugging sensation had completely deflated him, which he didn't appreciate in the slightest. He let go of Pet's wrist when he realised he was making the hand he held prisoner clumsy.

"Hurry up!" Jim whined, letting dignity slide in favour of getting this unpleasant moment out of the way.

There was a final tug and then relief, but before he could relax there was a roar from the door and Moran bolted into the room. Before Jim could do more than grasp the hand control and raise the head of his bed, Moran had torn Pet away from Jim's side and thrown him against the wall. There was an ugly crack as Pet's head impacted the plaster and then Moran was beating him, punching and squeezing the once wounded shoulder, targeting it deliberately to cause maximum pain.

Pet fought back of course, but he was too dazed from the initial impact and too badly hurt from the repeated blows to his now useless arm to be truly effective.

"Moran! Stop it!" Jim barked. His voice had no effect and Pet cried out in agony, crumpling to the floor as the blows got even fiercer.

"Moran!" Jim roared and when his second in command turned to look at him, Jim shot him coolly between the eyes.

No one hurt Pet. Pet was his.

%&%&%


	13. Chapter 13

Disclaimer – characters and settings as depicted in the BBC series not mine. No money being made. Plot is mine.

**John**

It was hard to focus through the pain. Whatever goon-in-charge had done, it wasn't something that he'd just shrug off lightly – no pun intended. John collapsed against the wall, grateful that his injured shoulder was not supporting him and tried to catch his breath. His ribs and cheekbone and jaw were also reporting pain, but even the unpleasant ringing in his ears and ballooning vision came in second to the damage done to his shoulder.

Sherlock had made it a point that he never grabbed, yanked or suddenly leaned on John's left shoulder. The right arm was fair game, but the so called sociopath had noted very early on that grabbing the shoulder that had been shot was Very Not Good. When his flatmate took to using him as a walking prop, a sometimes ladder, or even as a cushion, John had not objected too much because he'd noticed right off that Sherlock took every care he could to avoid hurting him. A token objection – one that was ignored – had been expected and delivered, but on the whole John hadn't worried about his personal boundaries or even his dignity, knowing that Sherlock was respecting the major stuff and letting the rest go unremarked.

Someone touched him and it was all John could do to restrain a scream – the strangled noise in the back of his throat was not much better, but pride was pride and he wouldn't let them hear him scream. A pillow was placed to support his arm and an icepack draped over the injury and then he was alone again, afloat in a sea of misery and trying to catch his breath and _think_.

There were drugs available – something he could take to cut the pain. There were muscle relaxants and an x-ray machine, which he'd need to assess the damage. All of those things involved moving though, something that he was absolutely not prepared to do at this time. He trusted Moriarty's goons only as far as he'd comfortably spit a rat and the man himself was no better. For a long moment, John indulged in a fierce longing for home: he was tired, he _hurt_ and he just wanted to be someplace safe, with people he trusted at hand.

Before he could grit his teeth and get on with it – the pain wouldn't go away without drugs and the injuries wouldn't treat themselves – a new set of hands touched him. Unlike the hands with the pillow these were clinical and knew just what to avoid. With minimal encouragement, John pushed up, using the wall for strength while the clinical hands supported and steadied his arm.

He had enough of his wits about him to strike out at the needle headed his way, pleased when he heard it break on the floor.

"You donnnn' gi'e me annnything that I havenn' approv'd and check'd," he growled, "You unnerstan' me?"

A voice shouted in the background and the ginger haired streak of nothing in front of him – all tall and thin and scraggly goatee – nodded rapidly, his adams apple bobbed as he gulped in response. Shaky fingers clutched at a vial and a new syringe and John nodded at the contents – a muscle relaxant – and the dosage.

X-rays and an ultrasound showed cracks in the collar bone and scapula but no breaks. There was significant deep tissue damage which could be just as problematic as an honest break. His ribs were bruised and the impact of his cheek against the wall had put a fine crack in it. He'd need to immobilise the shoulder until the cracks in the bone stabilised and put some serious work into physical rehab for the tissue damage.

A sling, some codeine in tablet form and assistance back to his chair was all John needed for the moment. Moriarty latched onto his wrist, the thin, pale fingers kneading restlessly.

The only thing in John's mind, aside from the pain, was a fervent wish that Sherlock was there instead of Moriarty.

He wanted to go home.

%&%&%


	14. Chapter 14

Disclaimer – characters and settings as depicted in the BBC series not mine. No money being made. Plot is mine.

**Moriarty**

He'd had to let Pet lie down after being treated, though he'd insisted that Pet's cot be put directly alongside his bed and lowered said bed as far as he could so he could still see and touch Pet when he wanted. With the catheter out, he was mobile and while it was uncomfortable, Jim was pleased that he could make a trip to the loo in a wheelchair. The Other Doctor was made to stay around to see to both his needs and Pet's and did so with a miserable countenance. He had taken pictures of Pet's injuries and Jim emailed them off to his rival – no sense in wasting images that would get his point across – as well as organising a dozen stripper-grams to arrive at irregular intervals and scheduling for Baker Street to be dug up on night-works for maintenance (unnecessary) on the gas mains.

Moran's body, blood, grey matter and other such detritus had been removed and/or scrubbed away. Jim hadn't thought twice about it since – Moran had only been good to Jim as long as he was obedient; the moment he showed defiance, he was useless. The Goon that was guarding Pet was very obsequious as a result of Jim's show of power and, even better; he handled Pet with utmost care for the evening loo break.

With Moran gone, there was an opening for top spot in Jim's little enterprise, and Jim had made up his mind that Pet would take that spot. He knew Pet could shoot remarkably well – look at how he'd assassinated the cabbie to save Sherlock – and that the man had a good grasp of tactics. Jim would need to train him into better observation skills, as well as skills in the bedroom, but he had quite made up his mind that Pet would become everything to him that Moran could have been had he been more intelligent and less homicidal. With that in mind, Jim settled to his own sleep, one hand firmly gripping Pet's hair to ensure the man didn't leave without Jim's knowledge.

Morning brought with it stiffness and Pet refusing to taken anything stronger than paracetamol. He accepted a low dose of muscle relaxants and insisted on alternating hot and cold packs to manage the swelling and 'discomfort'. That was Pet's term for it, but Jim knew he meant pain. The Other Doctor had given in quickly under Pet's glare, backed by Jim's silent look – Pet was an excellent doctor and would be treated however he decided his injuries needed to be treated. Money was no object and Jim was already planning to ensure the physical therapist that he would use to regain his own muscle strength after being shot would also attend to Pet's therapy.

Jim had once read somewhere – and disregarded it as twaddle – that sometimes being given a task would take a person's mind off pain. In the interest of experimenting, Jim saw Pet settled in his chair and then asked him to read the papers aloud. He allowed Pet to lay the paper flat on the bed as a concession to only having one working hand, but insisted on retaining his grip on Pet's wrist, rubbing the inside of it roughly with his thumb. He'd squeezed until Pet's voice was just right and then relaxed, staring up at the ceiling as Pet read, allowing the words to wash over him in soothing cadence.

There was a scuffle in the corridor and the Goon at the door choked and stumbled against the door frame before sliding slowly to the ground. The Other Doctor was hyperventilating in the other room and Jim looked up with a scowl as someone stepped into the doorway. Pet's voice broke off with a gasp as he realised who it was and Jim squeezed the wrist he held tightly.

It was Sher –

(AN – YES I mean to stop there!)

%&%&%


	15. Chapter 15

Disclaimer – characters and settings as depicted in the BBC series not mine. No money being made. Plot is mine.

**John**

In the privacy of his own mind, John could admit that he was in a hideous amount of pain. Deep tissue injuries were known for that – it was impossible to get comfortable and it didn't help that Moriarty insisted on hanging onto his one working wrist tightly. Both wrists were ringed with finger shaped bruises as the criminal mastermind liked to hold on too tight. John knew better than to flinch though, it would only goad his captor into hurting him further.

There was also the issue of pain management. While the morphine was available, effective and an attractive alternative to the pain, he feared the loss of control. John also knew himself well enough to realise that he could very easily become addicted to the stuff – it was a way to escape his captor and situation. Physical escape was impossible now – he'd been planning for when Moriarty began therapy and was moved to the palatial bedroom suite that John visited thrice daily – but there was no chance he could fight his way free with only one working shoulder, nor could he run far in this condition, no matter how necessary it might be.

Moriarty insisted that John read the paper to him as normal and it took a moment to get the tone of his voice right – to get the other to stop squeezing so tightly. With one hand imprisoned and the other out of order, Moriarty condescended to allow the paper to lay against his legs and John read the news of the outside world – a place he was beginning to feel rather disconnected from – aloud. Under the cadence of his voice John could hear the doctor moving about in the other room and the goon shifting his feet in boredom. Moriarty kept shooting the poor thug evil little looks, which eventually resulted in the man freezing in place, like a soldier to attention.

There was a scuffling sound in the next room and then the pop of silenced gunfire. Moriarty squeezed his wrist so hard John felt the bones grinding together and then there were three more pops, with three answering holes appearing in Moriarty's chest above his heart. The master criminal was dead before he'd taken a breath and John stared at the form of his flatmate in the doorway, dead goon at his feet, silenced gun still pointed at Moriarty.

'Shocked' didn't even begin to cover how John felt in that instant.

Sherlock was thin and pale and had dark shadows under his eyes – all indicators that he'd been working around the clock… working to come and get John.

"Get him off me," he gasped, too revolted to care what Sherlock thought of his girly display. Moriarty's fingers had locked in a death grip and John wanted them gone _now_, followed by getting up and getting away from this place. As grateful and relieved as he was that Sherlock was alive and healthy and _right here_, John wanted out; sooner rather than later.

Strong musician's fingers closed around his wrist and snapped the bones of the dead man, freeing John in an instant. He pulled away, staggering to his feet and steadying himself on the end of the bed for a moment, breathing hard and fighting not to throw himself at Sherlock in an inappropriate display of emotion.

"Thank you," the words were heartfelt and all-encompassing and Sherlock nodded, bright eyes raking over John and no doubt deducing his every move since the pool.

"Mycroft has a Special Forces team securing the building," Sherlock's voice was music to John's ears and he actually had to fight back tears for a moment, "We're safe enough for a moment."

This was actually the self-diagnosed sociopath's way of saying that John could take a minute to get his breath and bearings before they moved. It was ridiculously touching and completely familiar and John grinned, taking a deep breath and squaring his shoulder. He put aside the turmoil of his thoughts for now and walked around the bed, shoving his cot out of the way to fish the gun Moriarty kept under his pillows out. He wasn't as good with his right hand when it came to shooting, but he'd not go out of here unarmed and a liability.

"Ready when you are," he stated, turning away from his captors body without a glance. The goon was dead – he'd bled out in the last few minutes and John stepped past him without remorse. The doctor was cowering in the corner and actually whimpered when he spotted John and his flatmate. Sherlock didn't spare the other man a second glance as he crossed to the door and peered out.

"We'll wait for the Special Forces to arrive – they can take charge of the doctor cowering in the corner," Sherlock didn't bother to hide his contempt for the ginger haired man, running his eyes over John again, "How bad is it?"

From the tight tone of voice, John deduced Sherlock was concerned about him. Not one for dramatic pauses, John detailed the injuries in a clinical tone.

"You should take something for the pain," the doctor cowering in the corner quavered, "The panedine forte will be wearing off by now."

That was no secret to John, but he had no intention of allowing the other doctor to administer more pain killers to him. He didn't trust the man – in fact the only person he trusted at the moment was Sherlock and he certainly didn't trust his flatmate to prescribe or administer drugs.

"Watch the door," Sherlock ordered, stepping away from the frame. John took his place, watching the empty corridor in both directions as Sherlock went to deal with the doctor cowering in the corner. His flatmates voice was too low for John to make out actual words, but the tone was unmistakably cold and menacing. The doctor cowering in the corner sounded almost like Beaker from the Muppets with his squeaking responses. There was movement behind him but at a calm and unhurried pace, so John didn't bother to track it – Sherlock had the situation under control and didn't need help.

"Here," Sherlock muttered a moment later, "I've checked – the pack is undisturbed and therefore safe. You're sweating with pain – you need to take these. Also, you'll have to carry your scans."

John glanced at the two boxes of panedine forte that Sherlock was holding as well as the copy of John's x-rays and ultrasounds. He tucked the scans inside his sling along with one of the boxes, opening the other and dry swallowing two of the pills with a grimace. It wasn't ideal – the painkillers caused ulcers on an empty stomach, but it would do for now.

"You'll need to eat when we get back to Baker Street," Sherlock murmured, examining his face for any sign that the pills had kicked in. It took longer than a few seconds, but the gesture was appreciated: as was the assumption that John was coming straight home and not to a hospital.

"Maybe Mrs Hudson will have something available – I doubt you've done the shopping," John grinned, letting Sherlock take his place at the door.

"I have been a bit _busy_ John," Sherlock huffed at him, though he wasn't really upset. John chuckled, but straightened when footsteps sounded in the corridor.

"All clear, Mr Holmes," the voice was firm and slightly annoyed, "Did you find him?"

"Yes," Sherlock replied, stepping out, "There are two dead bodies in there; the one in the bed is Moriarty. There's also a doctor in there – he needs to be debriefed thoroughly so possible charges can be laid. Secure the laptop and other hard drives in the room and deliver them to Baker Street. John and I are heading home."

Such a delicious word, home. John was glad to hear it. He stepped out behind his flatmate and ignored the startled look the special forces guy gave him.

"Are you sure, Mr Holmes? It looks like he needs an ambulance," the man gestured vaguely with his weapon and John aimed a glare at him that had him stepping back in shock.

"I'll decide what I need, thank you," John replied firmly. Sherlock strode off down the corridor and John followed in his wake, Moriarty's gun pointed at the floor as he walked. Once around the corner, Sherlock slowed down, letting John catch him up. The thin genius kept shooting concerned glances at John as they walked and John ignored them as best he could. He wasn't going to turn into a mental case now, not after all he'd been through.

He'd have to talk to someone about his time as Moriarty's prisoner, but that was in the future. All he wanted now was to go home and nothing was going to get in the way of that.

**%&%&%**


	16. Chapter 16

Disclaimer – characters and settings as depicted in the BBC series not mine. No money being made. Plot is mine.

**Sherlock**

Appalled was not the word for what Sherlock felt upon waking in hospital after his meeting with Moriarty at the Pool. Panic didn't adequately describe how he reacted upon hearing that John was gone – missing – that in fact Lestrade and the rest of the dolts at the Yard hadn't even known John was there in the first place.

It didn't help that he was desperate for more of the drug that Moriarty had 'gifted' him with; that he needed it like he needed to breathe. All of a sudden breathing wasn't boring any more, but John was missing and even Sherlock knew himself well enough to know that he was badly compromised – his thinking was not clear and his mind dull and stupid.

Mycroft had stepped in of course, committing him to a rehab facility and Sherlock had thrown himself into overcoming the drugs physical effects as well as the cravings that it had stirred deep within him. He wasn't going back to the days when he clawed at his skin in need, woke lying in his own filth or even worse, woke not knowing where he was or who was currently sharing the bed with him.

Those days were behind him. Any time he had thought of backsliding on the addiction, John was there – the expression on his face when he'd realised that Sherlock had once been an addict, the smile he gave Sherlock when he was being brilliant, the scent of his tea lingering in the flat, the warmth of his jumpers which Sherlock squeezed into when John was at his second job and Sherlock was bored. If Sherlock became an addict again all the Good things – the John things – in his life would go away and that was not acceptable.

Once out of rehab, Sherlock threw himself into the data – the very scant and patchy data – that surrounded the events at the Pool. He didn't even have confirmation that John was alive, which reduced him to fretful anger whenever he wasn't sufficiently focussed. The pictures from Moriarty were a blessing and a curse – a blessing because John was alive, a curse because he was in pain.

That was not acceptable and therefore Sherlock began taking out the lower orders of Moriarty's little network, looking always for the threads that would lead him higher up the network to Moriarty's location – because if Moriarty was there, so would John be.

Eventually he managed to locate a homeless woman who'd had contact with John – as evidenced by her possession of his clothes and Sherlock had tracked down John's first prison. The mural on the wall had taken his breath away. There was no doubt in his mind who the artist was – John had left doodles in the margins of the newspapers and on the back of scraps of paper that were quite good and Sherlock would have recognised those initials on the wall if he was blind. The figure of himself at the top of one building showed that John was thinking of him – missing him. He'd documented that mural thoroughly, preserving John's painstaking work for all time. He wasn't able to take the wall with him but he'd made serious consideration of the matter.

The further photo's of John being examined and _touched_ by Moriarty sent him into a towering rage and he actually lost several days of effective work due to the emotion. Then he had a lead... an actual lead that would allow him to flush Moriarty into the open where he could track him back to John. Sherlock was in a position to manipulate a gang rivalry and when they two gangs were finally called to a 'meeting' with Moriarty Sherlock made sure that he attended as well, with some of Mycroft's better trained personell. One thing led to another and after a very strenuous series of days, Sherlock finally led his quarry out into the open. He wasn't sure if John was still alive at this point, but was determined to make sure that Moriarty paid for what he was doing. Sherlock had been overjoyed to hear that John was in fact alive, even if it was the sort of alive that came from waiting for inevitable death, but made sure to conceal that joy from Moriarty.

Then Moriarty promptly signed his death warrant by threatening to cut bits off John as if he was a _thing, _a toy or object to be carelessly handled instead of the precious commodity that he was. Sherlock had detected the body armour of course and had made his shots count, aiming for the most painful wounds he could possibly inflict. It wasn't until after the shots were fired that he considered the ramifications for John. It was very likely that his John would be punished for Sherlock's rash actions, but he hadn't seen any other choice at the time. He needed Moriarty injured, in a very specific way, so that he could trace the medical assistance he used back to his quarry.

The pranks that plagued Baker Street while Sherlock was making his final deductions were maddening, though it wasn't hard to tell who was behind them even if the sender was 'anonymous'. John had been gone for a month now, and his jumpers were beginning to smell more like Sherlock than John. Mrs Hudson was beginning to look rather old and tired as the wait drew on as well, but Sherlock was sure he had Moriarty almost cornered. Mycroft was actually helping, and Scotland Yard was positvely singing his praises as the criminals fell like dominos under his onslaught. Moriarty's second in command was also on something of a rampage and it was a bit of a challenge to get to the witnesses before he did at times.

The problem was that the doctor that Moriarty had suborned first and Mycroft second – only Mycroft was _so_ much better at it – wasn't called upon to tend to Moriarty's injuries. Sherlock was infuriated until Lestrade, of all people, pointed out that John was probably treating Moriarty instead. While Sherlock didn't like the idea of John, who was Good, taking care of Moriarty, who was Not Good, he had to admit that if he'd been shot multiple times and wasn't able to openly seek medical assistance, John would be the doctor he'd want at his side.

Dr Grassdale, a skinny ginger bloke with a whine to his voice and a nervous disposition, was finally tapped by Moriarty's network almost a week to the day after the shooting. At the same time, there were rumours that Sebastian Moran, the violent sniper that carried out Moriarty's dirty work and _liked_ it, was dead. The more outrageous rumours said that Moriarty _himself_ had shot Moran, though the reasons for such an action were so muddled as to be unfathomable. Mycroft had seen to it that Grassdale had been fitted with a tracking device that even the American's hadn't heard of, let alone the Chinese or the French and Sherlock watched the trace move in a very roundabout fashion to its final location. Sherlock ignored everything else, including his email and text alerts as he waited for the final clue to John's location.

Once he was sure that Grassdale was in place, Sherlock took the information to Mycroft, who once again came through with a small force of specially trained armed men and the blueprints to the building that matched the co-ordinates.

Though Sherlock was supposed to wait on the perimeter, he was inside and heading for Grassdale even as Mycroft's men cleared the rest of the building. Grassdale would be with Moriarty, who would tell him where John was before dying as painfully as Sherlock could manage. No one took John away from Sherlock, not even Sarah had managed it. In fact it was highly unlikely that Sherlock would ever let John step foot outside of their flat ever again. If that meant he had to do all the grocery shopping himself, so be it. Grassdale had in fact been hovering off to one side of a well appointed operating theatre and had thrown himself to the floor at the sight of Sherlock.

Sherlock had ignored him in favour of shooting the thug standing in the doorway at the far end of the room before his brain registered what his ears were relaying. John was reading something aloud, his voice flat and smooth in a way that sounded entirely unlike himself. Stepping into the doorway and ignoring the man dying at his feet, Sherlock took in the fact that Moriarty was lying in the bed, gripping one of John's wrists savagely and that John himself was hurt.

In a rage, Sherlock shot Moriarty without even thinking twice about it. No one hurt John, John was too _important_.

In the aftermath of the shooting, Sherlock could barely hear over the rushing of blood in his ears, though he head John's demand to be freed of Moriarty's grip and watched his flatmate secure a weapon with which to defend them both. John was clearly in no mood for welcomes, or questions or anything other than getting out of there, so Sherlock indulged him, allowing him to stand guard while Grassdale provided medications, scans and a hasty diagnosis of the injuries. Sherlock managed to get his flatmate to take some pain relief, but only by playing on his own safety being at risk because John was distracted. He made a mental note to ensure that John's needs come first for the next little while and waited with as much patience as he could muster for the all-clear. Now that he had John at his side, his reserves of patience were suddenly full.

Mycroft's man was not happy that Sherlock had gone ahead without protection, but Sherlock ignored that as a matter of course. Who could wait when _John_ needed him? With the building secure and John as medicated as he would allow, Sherlock ushered his flatmate through the building to the waiting car, relieved that Mycroft had sent only it and not included himself or his assistant in the deal. John sat rigidly beside Sherlock all the way across London; his eyes fixed on the world outside the windows, breathing a little faster than normal, which Sherlock put down to the pain of moving in the car. He was almost sure that John sobbed once as they pulled up to Baker Street, but he couldn't swear to it and the other man's terribly battered face was dry of tears.

Mrs Hudson wasn't home, which was Good because she would fuss and insist on doctors and possibly even hospitals, which wasn't what John needed right now. Besides, Sherlock was in no mood to share. He let John stand in the middle of the sitting room, which was a mess even by Sherlock's standards, while Sherlock reclaimed the pain medications and scan results from John's sling. He didn't try to disarm John – his friend wouldn't thank him for it – and waited for several minutes for John to stop looking around and pay attention to him.

"It's a bit of a mess," John said tentatively and Sherlock snorted, rolling his eyes.

"I have been a bit busy, John," he replied without any real heat – they both knew why, but it wasn't in John to let things pass without a little of that gentle teasing that Sherlock secretly enjoyed so much.

"Alright then," John nodded, grinning at him slightly.

"You need to lie down for a bit," Sherlock pointed out and held up a hand when John scowled, "So do I, it's been non stop since he took you and I'm feeling a bit tired."

"Lie down with me," there was a faint challenge in John's voice, as if he knew Sherlock was going to refuse and had already braced himself for it. Sherlock wasn't about to refuse – he needed to know John was _home safe_ as much as John himself did.

"Ok," the response got him a suspicious look but Sherlock didn't wait for it to be analysed, hanging his coat – with the stolen silencer still in the hidden pocket – on its normal hook and waving for John to go upstairs. They couldn't share Sherlock's bed, he wasn't sure where it was anymore.

It took a bit of doing, but eventually John was changed into his usual sleepwear and tucked into bed with Sherlock behind him. Due to the injuries, Sherlock couldn't simply wrap his arms around John and fall asleep, but John's right hand wasn't injured, if you discounted the bruises, so Sherlock took possession of it, wrapping his own fingers loosely around it and closing his eyes.

It took twenty minutes, Sherlock counted, for John to begin to relax. It took another fifty three for him to fall asleep and only once he was sure that John was properly asleep did Sherlock allow himself to relax too.

%&%&%&


	17. Chapter 17

Disclaimer – characters and settings as depicted in the BBC series not mine. No money being made. Plot is mine.

**John**

John woke and didn't want to open his eyes. If this was a dream, it was especially vivid. Instead of the cot, he was in his bed, in his room which smelled of him. He could hear Sherlock racketing about downstairs, accompanied by Mrs Hudson's scolding voice. His body, while not exactly pain free, was comfortable. Never one for self delusion, John sighed and opened his eyes. The ceiling that greeted him was his own bedroom ceiling and triggered a rush of memories. Sherlock, standing in the doorway after shooting Moriarty, the weight of the master criminals gun in John's hand, walking down the corridor to his freedom and riding in a car, in the back seat no less, watching London stream by on his way home. Even the disastrous wreck that used to be the front room had been greeted with relief last night.

Turning his head, John spotted the gun he'd carried home resting on the bedside table. It wasn't exactly in easy reach, being on his left hand side, but the sight of it was a reminder that yesterday had been real. He'd come home yesterday and the words themselves were enough to motivate him into getting up.

Mrs Hudson's voice had ceased a while ago and John missed it. As background noises went, it was a pleasant one, even if she was scolding his flatmate. Wondering what Sherlock had gotten up to now, John pulled the covers aside and worked his way upright, his feet landing on the floor with a thump as he breathed through the pain of moving. Blood pulsed unpleasantly in his bruised cheek and temple and his shoulder gnawed at him with relentlessly sharp teeth. Time for more pain pills, which John vaguely remembered being downstairs.

There was a clatter of feet on the stairs and then his door opened, Sherlock stepping through it and knocking on his way past. Early on, John had tried to convince Sherlock he should knock on John's bedroom door before entering – Sherlock never got the sequence right which John found more endearing than frustrating. He knew his flatmate was doing it on purpose, in protest against social conventions, which were boring, but the fact that he knocked had been the whole point. John had become accustomed to not minding when the knocking occurred.

"How are you feeling?" Sherlock asked breathlessly, "You've been asleep for _ages_."

In Sherlock speak that could be anything from three days to five minutes, so John didn't put much stock in the comment.

"Time for a pain pill," John gritted his teeth, "I'm just mustering the energy to go get them."

"Oh," Sherlock frowned, "Here."

He held out his hand expectantly and John considered it for a moment before taking it, reminding himself sharply as he did that Sherlock was not going to just latch on and not let go, or latch on and hurt him. In fact, if he told Sherlock to let go, the man would do it at once and not punish him for it. Sherlock pulled him to his feet and steadied him for a moment before stepping back and letting John precede him slowly down the stairs.

"You tidied!" John exclaimed in pleased surprise as he saw the state of the front room. Sherlock had indeed cleared most of the mess away – there were several black bags bulging at the top of the stairs leading to the ground floor and John could not only see the rug in the front room, the couch had also been unearthed. The armchairs were also clear of debris, though the table they used as a joint desk was still buried in mounds of files, books, maps and objects that were probably 'evidence'.

"It's two in the afternoon," Sherlock replied, "I _said_ you'd been asleep for ages. Sit on the couch and I'll get the pills. You need to eat, too."

"If we have milk, that will coat my stomach," John wasn't sure about Sherlock's cooking skills, and at least with a glass of milk he'd be able to tell if it was off or not. Sherlock made a vague hmm in reply and trotted off to the kitchen, which was still a disaster area if the bit that John could see was any indication. Sherlock returned with a glass of milk that was miraculously not off and the packet of pills, which he showed John before popping two out and passing them over, then the glass.

By the time John had finished sipping the milk there was toast and tea ready and Sherlock joined him on the couch with his own toast and tea, which was something of a miracle really. Sherlock even cleared the plates away, by which time the pain pills were starting to kick in and John could relax against the back of the couch.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock fidgeted in the door of the kitchen, shooting John little looks and then letting his eyes dart away to random objects in the room, "He did this because I goaded him."

Moriarty's name wasn't mentioned, but John knew who Sherlock meant. He didn't like the guilt on Sherlock's face and sighed, preparing himself to talk about the last thing he really wanted to think about right now. John knew that there would be people who had to be told what had happened, but he'd wanted a bit longer to enjoy being home before raking the whole thing over.

"Actually, Moran did it because Moriarty was complaining when I took his catheter out," John replied. He patted the couch next to him and Sherlock came to sit with alacrity, perching sideways and watching John closely. John offered his hand shyly and Sherlock took it gingerly, threading their fingers together and resting their hands on John's thigh.

In a steady tone, John explained why he'd been beaten – the misunderstanding that led to it and the death that had been the immediate result. He revealed that he'd noticed Moriarty attributing more… intimate intention to John's treatment of him than had been present and his concern that the master criminal would decide that there was a… genuine connection between them.

"He wanted to make you his," there was jealousy on Sherlock's face and anger in his eyes which should have worried John under the circumstances but didn't. Sherlock was _his_ in a way, and John was Sherlock's. They belonged together: as a team, a double act, a partnership. They complemented each others weaknesses and enhanced each others strengths. If the time he'd spent in captivity had taught him one thing, it was that John had no intention of leaving Sherlock behind… not even for Sarah.

"It wouldn't have worked, Sherlock," John was moved to alleviate that jealous and quietened when Sherlock snorted and rolled his eyes.

"Of course not, John, don't be silly," the scolding tone was light and John grinned, shaking his head. Sherlock sighed and shifted on the couch, moving closer. Sensing a need, John gave an experimental tug and was rewarded with Sherlock's head on his good shoulder and the warmth of his flatmate against his side.

"I tried as hard as I could," Sherlock's words sounded forlorn in the quiet of the flat, "I'd have been quicker if I could."

"I know," John leaned his cheek against dark curls, breathing in his flatmates' scent. This would have looked odd to an outsider, but to John it made perfect sense that his tactile flatmate – at least Sherlock was tactile with _him_ – needed to reconnect after their enforced separation.

"He gave me cocaine," the words were like being doused in ice water and John sucked in a startled breath. Sherlock squeezed his hand, a demand that he listen and the former soldier did so, seething inwardly at the dead man.

"When we were unconscious at the pool he injected me with it. I had to go through detox again, but I wanted to this time. I don't want the drugs, John. I need you to know that. No matter what, I'm not going back to that life ever again."

"I know," John soothed. He did, too. Sherlock may have craved a smoke on a regular basis, but over the months they'd been living together, John had come to notice that stronger cravings had yet to raise their head. Sherlock had not shown any interest in returning to drug use: even at crime scenes where the gear was displayed and addiction was stamped all over the room, Sherlock had never lingered or – more importantly – avoided the stuff. He'd treated it like any other part of the scene and that was how it should be.

In the wake of John's reassurance, silence fell on the flat. They sat together, listening to the traffic and the sound of Mrs Hudson's telly for a while, sharing warmth. John relished the time, using it to step further away from the feeling of captivity that had surrounded him like a cloak these last few weeks.

Footsteps sounded on the stairs and Sherlock frowned for a moment before squeezing his hand lightly and sitting up. John still didn't know the full tale of Sherlock's side of things, but that could wait for a little while longer.

"Sherlock dear," Mrs Hudson called, "I thought Dr Watson might like… oh! John! Look at you!"

As their not housekeeper headed towards him with a covered plate and a concerned look on her face, John squeezed Sherlock's fingers in reply.

**%&%&%**


	18. Chapter 18

Disclaimer – characters and settings as depicted in the BBC series not mine. No money being made. Plot is mine.

**Sherlock**

John's simple acceptance of Sherlock's brief addiction had eased a tension that Sherlock hadn't even been aware he was experiencing. John's opinion of him mattered in a way that not even Mycroft could claim – for John's sake, Sherlock would even knock on doors he was opening.

Sherlock hadn't missed the way John had looked at his outstretched hand. The bruises and some of what John had said clearly indicated that John had come to expect that hands meant pain and grabbing and Sherlock made a mental note not to latch onto John as he usually did for a little while. It would be tiresome, but for John he would try.

Their moment of peace was interrupted by Mrs Hudson and some of her excellent shortbreads, which were welcome. Her cries and concerns were not: Sherlock didn't appreciate her insinuating that John wasn't being properly cared for.

"Sherlock's doing a good job, Mrs Hudson. He's fed me tea and toast already."

The comment made him beam at his John and slant a superior look at Mrs Hudson. John liked being looked after by Sherlock – so there!

The sound of the front door opening made him scowl and John paused for a moment, tensing as he realised that someone had let themselves into their home without announcing their presence first.

"It's Mycroft and Lestrade," Sherlock identified their footsteps easily and was pleased when John relaxed again.

"Don't let yourself in, Mycroft. John doesn't like it," Sherlock announced as their guests – well, guest really, Lestrade was welcome – reached the sitting room door.

"My apologies, Dr Watson," Mycroft smarmed as he entered, not even knocking.

"Jesus, mate," Lestrade blurted, "What can we do for you?"

As Lestrade looked properly horrified at the sight of John's injuries – like any concerned friend would – Sherlock didn't immediately bristle. Nor did the query imply that Sherlock was not taking proper care of John, so Sherlock allowed it to pass with a sniff, curling back up on the couch and tucking his toes under John's thigh.

"Nothing, thanks, Geoff," John replied, "It's too soon for physio – I've cracked some bones and can't start on anything until they've healed a bit more. I've got help if I need it, anyway."

The glance he shot at Sherlock made his flatmate frown slightly less and wriggle his toes, pleased that John understood that he was in Sherlock's care now. He let John play host, inviting Lestrade to sit down – and Mycroft too, though Sherlock didn't know why he bothered because Mycroft would sit down when and where he liked.

"Tea?" Sherlock asked, because his brother wasn't expecting it and John was in no condition to offer it himself. John liked manners and so Sherlock indulged him _just__this__once_. Mycroft refused of course, but Lestrade said yes and Sherlock disappeared into their still chaotic kitchen to make John another cup as well. John and Lestrade chatted idly while they were waiting, which must have annoyed Mycroft, but Sherlock enjoyed listening to. Not because they were saying anything interesting, or even relevant, but because he hadn't had the chance to hear John's voice in idle conversation for so long that to hear it now was something of a treat.

He served John his tea first, then Lestrade, then brought out his own, showing that he had Good Manners when he wanted to. John offered the plate of biscuits that Mrs Hudson left behind and Mycroft cleared his throat once everyone was settled again, Sherlock with his toes under John's thigh and Lestrade with his tea and biscuit.

"I suppose you want to know what happened from my point of view," John said quietly. Mycroft nodded and so John launched into his tale, starting with waking in the first prison with nothing to do and going on to describe his deal with Mad Aunty and Moriarty's macabre series of experiments. Sherlock had known all about them of course and Lestrade was naturally shocked to learn the reason behind the sudden series of homeless abductions and slayings. John suspected that Moriarty had taken pictures of him when he was being changed from his own clothes to the designer clothes he woke in and Sherlock was certain his flatmate was correct. It would be just like Moriarty to do so. Hearing once more that Moriarty had become unnaturally attached to his John, that the master criminal was so deluded that he thought John genuinely _cared_ for him, was no less pleasant the second time around.

"So, Sebastian Moran truly is dead," Mycroft frowned, "Pity. I had hoped he would lead us to certain targets of the intelligence community."

"So sorry he beat you half to death and that you're now suffering hideously painful injuries," Sherlock spat the words at his brother, infuriated that Mycroft couldn't see that John had been _hurt_ and that was all that mattered, really. Mycroft slid him a warning look, one that all but screamed 'behave' at him and Sherlock glowered with menace.

"You should leave, now," Sherlock announced, "He's told you what you need to know. John needs to _rest_ and I know that you recorded every word he said."

"I hope you recover soon, Dr Watson," Mycroft didn't bother denying it and John looked rather resigned. Sherlock made a mental note to ensure there was no surveillance inside the flat – John had been watched enough of late.

"Thank you Mr Holmes," the formal words were weary, but Sherlock knew that John just didn't want to deal with Mycroft any more – a quite sensible attitude, really. Lestrade stayed with John while Sherlock watched Mycroft leave from the top of the stairs, their voices once more joining in a quiet chatter. Sherlock smiled to himself – Lestrade could stay as long as he liked: John liked him and would like it that Sherlock welcomed his friend into the flat. While Sherlock could never quite bring himself to consider the Inspector as more than a good colleague, he did understand that John was a Good Person, which meant that he made friends wherever he went.

Lestrade was a very sensible friend for John to have and therefore he would be allowed to visit with John for a little longer.

%&%&%

**One more chapter to go!**


	19. Chapter 19

Disclaimer – characters and settings as depicted in the BBC series not mine. No money being made. Plot is mine.

**John**

John let the front door bang shut behind him and climbed the stairs, puffing a little under the weight of the groceries. It had taken months, but finally his arm was back to normal – or what passed for normal by a limb that had been shattered, mended and then injured again – which meant he had taken over sole responsibility for the grocery shopping again.

Sherlock had insisted on doing the shopping in the weeks immediately following his return from captivity, which John had been grateful for at first. After a fortnight of odd meals consisting of what Sherlock insisted was 'finger food' – by which he meant food that could be eaten with one hand – John had insisted on accompanying Sherlock to the shops to oversee his selections. They'd tried giving Sherlock a list, but that worked about as well as you would expect with a genius who was a) bored, b) easily distracted when he wanted to be and c) prone to experimentation on those around him. John had endured a series of toasted bread products – bagels, baps, croissants and tea cakes included as well as the more traditional toast and marmite while his flatmate nursed various bruises from indignant fellow shoppers that didn't appreciate being told the state of their relationships by a complete stranger in the middle of Tesco's.

Lestrade had thanked John when he took charge of the shopping trips, though Sherlock had been quite annoyed at the time. John eventually worked out that it was because people spent a bit of time giving John second looks due to his injuries which was Not Good, according to Sherlock. John had dealt with it by sticking his free hand in Sherlock's coat pocket, or adding his grip to the basket that Sherlock was carrying. Sherlock was very possessive of John in the wake of his return and John … didn't mind it.

He'd thought that his return to Baker Street would be a bit more fraught than it had been. Moriarty had shared some characteristics with Sherlock – high level of intelligence, strong opinions and desire to get his own way and a poor reaction to boredom being the main ones. While John had known that there were untold differences in the two men – what was twisted in Moriarty was tempered in Sherlock – the former captive had expected to come up against at least a few unpleasant associations once free.

It helped that Sherlock went out of his way to consider and meet John's needs – real or imagined – in those first few days. The change in behaviour was so stark that John began to positively long for normality and greeted Sherlock's reversion to _some_ of his old habits with relief.

Not everything went back to what passed for normal between them. John's habit of sticking his hand in Sherlock's pocket encouraged the genius to touch more in return. Touching hands led to linking arms, which led to cuddling, which led to more intimate touches. Sherlock had been hesitant at first – in fact he was still rather shy when it came to initiating what he insisted on calling 'coitus' – but John was slowly wearing that shyness down.

"John! Come and look!" Sherlock called from the sitting room as John deposited his shopping on the table. The counters were currently arrayed with Sherlock glassware, draining over towels after being thoroughly cleaned prior to starting a new series of experiments. John took a moment to put the perishables in the fridge, avoiding the partially defrosted toes as he did, and then headed to the sitting room, wondering what Sherlock was looking at now.

The telly was on with the sound off and Sherlock was standing in front of it, staring raptly. As John came to stand beside him one long arm wound around his waist and an absent kiss was pressed to his hairline, the standard greeting if John had been out of the genius' sight for any length of time.

On the screen there was a picture of Donovan and Anderson in front of what looked like a new build in greater London. From the amount of forensics people visible and the pallor on Sally's face it appeared the scene was a nasty one.

"Is this related to the people smugglers?" John asked, leaning into Sherlock's side and resting his head on the shoulder beside him.

"Yes it is," Sherlock replied, "Now perhaps Donovan will listen to me. Honestly, I don't know what Lestrade was thinking, taking leave!"

"Probably that the last time he went on holiday it was for the birth of his daughter twelve years ago," John replied dryly, amused that Sherlock was still sulking over Lestrade's desire to take a proper holiday with his missus and leave Sally temporarily as Sherlock's main point of contact with the Yard. Sherlock sniffed in a dismissive fashion and then turned and wrapped John firmly in both arms, kissing him passionately for a moment.

"I estimate we have only twenty four minutes until Sally sends for us," Sherlock purred, "And you are remarkably adept at what Google refers to as a 'quickie'."

John felt blood pool in certain key areas and groaned, pressing closer to Sherlock in reply. He didn't waste time debating the merits of beginning anything now, knowing that Sherlock would sulk if they had to stop before they finished.

Not to mention that Sherlock would not be in the mood for anything while working anyway.

It was an unconventional relationship, but it worked and there was no denying that John's life was more interesting because he'd run into Mike Stamford all those months ago.

He wouldn't have it any other way – in fact if he had his way, he'd make it last forever.

END


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